OFF 


VAN  DYKE 


FIRST 


E-  PIT  I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


BOOKS  BY  HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

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DAYS     OFF 


M  \  ' 


Our  canoes  go  with  the  river,  but  no  longer  easily  or  lazily. 


DAYS  OFF 

AND    OTHER    DIGRESSIONS 


BY 

HENRY  VAN    DYKE 


I  do  not  count  the  hours  I  spend 
In  wandering  by  the  sea; 
The  forest  is  my  loyal  friend, 
Like  God  it  useth  me  : 

Or  on  the  mountain-crest  sublime, 
Or  down  the  oaken  glade, 
O  what  have  I  to  do  with  Time? 
For  this  the  day  was  made. 

—RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

MDCCCCVII 


Copyright,  1907,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

Published,  October,  1907 


MY    FRIEND    AND    NEIGHBOUR 

GROVER    CLEVELAND 
WHOSE  YEARS   OF   GREAT   WORK 

AS   A   STATESMAN 
HAVE   BEEN   CHEERED   BY   DAYS   OF   GOOD   PLAY 

AS  A   FISHERMAN 

THIS   BOOK    IS    DEDICATED 

WITH   WARM  AND   DEEP    REGARDS 


AVALON, 

JULY  10xH,  1907. 


CONTENTS 

<j 

I.  Days  Off 

II.  A  Holiday  in  a  Vacation  23 

777.  His  Oilier  Engagement  57 

IV.  Books  that  I  Loved  as  a  Boy  101 

V.  Among  the  Quantock  Hills  117 

VI.  Between  the  Lupin  and  the  Laurel          139 

F77.  Little  Red  Tom  177 

F777.  Silverhorns  193 

IX.  Notions  about  Novels  221 

X.  Some  Remarks  on  Gulls  233 

XI.  Leviathan  271 

Z77.  The  Art  of  Leaving  Off  309 


(Vi31?377 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Our  canoes  go  with   the  river,   but  no 

Frontispiece 

longer  easily  or  lazily 

Facing 
page 

On  such  a  carry  travel  is  slow  36 

A  notion  to  go  down  stream  struck  the  salmon     88 

There  was  the  gleam  of  an  immense  mass  of 
silver  in  its  meshes  94 

Tannery  Combe,  Holford  126 

"Billy  began  to  call,  and  it  was  beautiful"  206 

There  he  stood  defiant,  front  feet  planted  wide 
apart  218 

She  took  the  oars  and  rowed  me  slowly  around 
the  shore  266 


DAYS     OFF 


DAYS     OFF 

"A  DAY  OFF"  said  my  Uncle  Peter,  settling 
down  in  his  chair  before  the  open  wood-fire,  with 
that  air  of  complacent  obstinacy  which  spreads 
over  him  when  he  is  about  to  confess  and  expound 
his  philosophy  of  life, — "a  day  off  is  a  day  that  a 
man  takes  to  himself." 

"You  mean  a  day  of  luxurious  solitude,"  I  said, 
"a  stolen  sweet  of  time,  which  he  carries  away  into 
some  hidden  corner  to  enjoy  alone, — a  little-Jack- 
Horner  kind  of  a  day  ? " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  my  Uncle  Peter;  "solitude  is 
a  thing  which  a  man  hardly  ever  enjoys  by  himself. 
He  may  practise  it  from  a  sense  of  duty.  Or  he  may 
take  refuge  in  it  from  other  things  that  are  less  tolera 
ble.  But  nine  times  out  of  ten  he  will  find  that  he 
can't  get  a  really  good  day  to  himself  unless  he  shares 
it  with  some  one  else;  if  he  takes  it  alone,  it  will  be 
a  heavy  day,  a  chain-and-ball  day, — anything  but  a 
day  off." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean,  then?"  I  asked,  know- 
3 


DAYS    OFF 

ing  that  nothing  would  please  him  better  than  the 
chance  to  discover  his  own  meaning  against  a  little 
background  of  apparent  misunderstanding  and  op 
position. 

"I  mean,"  said  my  Uncle  Peter,  in  that  delib 
erate  manner  which  lends  a  flavour  of  deep  wis 
dom  to  the  most  obvious  remarks,  "I  mean  that 
every  man  owes  it  to  himself  to  have  some  days  in 
his  life  when  he  escapes  from  bondage,  gets  away 
from  routine,  and  does  something  which  seems  to 
have  no  purpose  in  the  world,  just  because  he  wants 
to  do  it." 

"Plays  truant,"  I  interjected. 

"Yes,  if  you  like  to  put  it  in  that  objectionable 
way,"  he  answered;  "but  I  should  rather  compare 
it  to  bringing  flowers  into  the  school-room,  or  keep 
ing  white  mice  in  your  desk,  or  inventing  a  new  game 
for  the  recess.  You  see  we  are  all  scholars,  board 
ing  scholars,  in  the  House  of  Life,  from  the  moment 
when  birth  matriculates  us  to  the  moment  when 
death  graduates  us.  We  never  really  leave  the  big 
school,  no  matter  what  we  do.  But  my  point  is  this: 
the  lessons  that  we  learn  when  we  do  not  know  that 

4 


DAYS    OFF 

we  are  studying  are  often  the  pleasantest,  and  not 
always  the  least  important.  There  is  a  benefit  as 
well  as  a  joy  in  finding  out  that  you  can  lay  down 
your  task  for  a  proper  while  without  being  disloyal 
to  your  duty.  Play-time  is  a  part  of  school-time,  not 
a  break  in  it.  You  remember  what  Aristotle  says: 
'ascJwloumetha  gar  hina  scJwlazomen.9 ' 

"My  dear  uncle,"  said  I,  "there  is  nothing  out 
of  the  common  in  your  remarks,  except  of  course 
your  extraordinary  habit  of  decorating  them  with  a 
Greek  quotation,  like  an  ancient  coin  set  as  a  scarf- 
pin  and  stuck  carelessly  into  a  modern  neck- tie. 
But  apart  from  this  eccentricity,  everybody  admits 
the  propriety  of  what  you  have  been  saying.  Why, 
all  the  expensive,  up-to-date  schools  are  arranged  on 
your  principle:  play-hours,  exercise-hours,  silent- 
hours,  social-hours,  all  marked  in  the  schedule: 
scholars  compelled  and  carefully  guided  to  amuse 
themselves  at  set  times  and  in  approved  fashions: 
athletics,  dramatics,  school-politics  and  social  ethics, 
all  organized  and  co-ordinated.  What  you  flatter 
yourself  by  putting  forward  as  an  amiable  heresy  has 
become  a  commonplace  of  orthodoxy,  and  your  lib- 

5 


DAYS    OFF 

eral  theory  of  education  and  life  is  now  one  of  the 
marks  of  fashionable  conservatism." 

My  Uncle  Peter's  face  assumed  the  beatific  ex 
pression  of  a  man  who  knows  that  he  has  been  com 
pletely  and  inexcusably  misunderstood,  and  is  there 
fore  justified  in  taking  as  much  time  as  he  wants  to 
make  the  subtlety  and  superiority  of  his  ideas  per 
fectly  clear  and  to  show  how  dense  you  have  been 
in  failing  to  apprehend  them. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  "it  is  very  singular  that 
you  should  miss  my  point  so  entirely.  All  these 
things  that  you  have  been  saying  about  your  modern 
schools  illustrate  precisely  the  opposite  view  from 
mine.  They  are  signs  of  that  idolatry  of  organiza 
tion,  of  system,  of  the  time-table  and  the  schedule, 
which  is  making  our  modern  life  so  tedious  and  ex 
hausting.  Those  unfortunate  school-boys  and  school 
girls  who  have  their  amusements  planned  out  for 
them  and  cultivate  their  social  instincts  according 
to  rule,  never  know  the  joy  of  a  real  day  off,  unless 
they  do  as  I  say,  and  take  it  to  themselves.  The 
right  kind  of  a  school  will  leave  room  and  liberty  for 
them  to  do  this.  It  will  be  a  miniature  of  what  life 

6 


DAYS    OFF 

is  for  all  of  us, — a  place  where  law  reigns  and  inde 
pendence  is  rewarded, — a  stream  of  work  and  duty 
diversified  by  islands  of  freedom  and  repose, — a  pil 
grimage  in  which  it  is  permitted  to  follow  a  side- 
path,  a  mountain  trail,  a  footway  through  the  mead 
ow,  provided  the  end  of  the  journey  is  not  forgotten 
and  the  day's  march  brings  one  a  little  nearer  to 
that  end." 

"But  will  it  do  that,"  I  asked,  "unless  one  is  care 
ful  to  follow  the  straight  line  of  the  highway  and 
march  as  fast  as  one  can  ?" 

"That  depends,"  said  my  Uncle  Peter,  nodding  his 
head  gravely,  "upon  what  you  consider  the  end  of 
the  journey.  If  it  is  something  entirely  outside  of 
yourself,  a  certain  stint  of  work  which  you  were 
created  to  perform;  or  if  it  is  something  altogether 
beyond  yourself,  a  certain  place  or  office  at  which 
you  are  aiming  to  arrive;  then,  of  course,  you  must 
stick  to  the  highway  and  hurry  along. 

"But  suppose  that  the  real  end  of  your  journey  is 
something  of  which  you  yourself  are  a  part.  Sup 
pose  it  is  not  merely  to  get  to  a  certain  place,  but 
to  get  there  in  a  certain  condition,  with  the  light  of 

7 


DAYS   OFF 

a  sane  joy  in  your  eyes  and  the  peace  of  a  grateful 
content  in  your  heart.  Suppose  it  is  not  merely  to 
do  a  certain  piece  of  work,  but  to  do  it  in  a  certain 
spirit,  cheerfully  and  bravely  and  modestly,  without 
overrating  its  importance  or  overlooking  its  neces 
sity.  Then,  I  fancy,  you  may  find  that  the  winding 
foot-path  among  the  hills  often  helps  you  on  your 
way  as  much  as  the  high  road,  the  day  off  among 
the  islands  of  repose  gives  you  a  steadier  hand  and  a 
braver  heart  to  make  your  voyage  along  the  stream 
of  duty." 

"You  may  skip  the  moralizing,  if  you  please, 
Uncle  Peter,"  said  I,  "and  concentrate  your  mind 
upon  giving  me  a  reasonable  account  of  the  peculiar 
happiness  of  what  you  call  a  day  off." 

"Nothing  could  be  simpler,"  he  answered.  "It  is 
the  joy  of  getting  out  of  the  harness  that  makes  a 
horse  fling  up  his  heels,  and  gallop  around  the  field, 
and  roll  over  and  over  in  the  grass,  when  he  is  turned 
loose  in  the  pasture.  It  is  the  impulse  of  pure  play 
that  makes  a  little  bunch  of  wild  ducks  chase  one 
another  round  and  round  on  the  water,  and  follow 
their  leader  in  circles  and  figures  of  eight;  there  is 

8 


DAYS   OFF 

no  possible  use  in  it,  but  it  gratifies  their  instinct  of 
freedom  and  makes  them  feel  that  they  are  not  mere 
animal  automata,  whatever  the  natural  history  men 
may  say  to  the  contrary.  It  is  the  sense  of  release  that 
a  man  experiences  when  he  unbuckles  the  straps  of 
his  knapsack,  and  lays  it  down  under  a  tree,  and 
says  'You  stay  there  till  I  come  back  for  you!  I'm 
going  to  rest  myself  by  climbing  this  hill,  just  because 
it  is  not  on  the  road-map,  and  because  there  is 
nothing  at  the  top  of  it  except  the  view.' 

"It  is  this  feeling  of  escape,"  he  continued,  in  the 
tone  of  a  man  who  has  shaken  off  the  harness  of 
polite  conversation  and  let  himself  go  for  a  gallop 
around  the  field  of  monologue,  "it  is  just  this  ex 
hilarating  sense  of  liberation  that  is  lacking  in  most 
of  our  social  amusements  and  recreations.  They 
are  dictated  by  fashion  and  directed  by  routine. 
Men  get  into  the  so-called  *  round  of  pleasure,'  and 
they  are  driven  into  a  trot  to  keep  up  with  it,  just  as 
if  it  were  a  treadmill.  The  only  difference  is  that 
the  pleasure-mill  grinds  no  corn.  Harry  Bellairs 
was  complaining  to  me,  the  other  day,  that  after  an 
exhausting  season  of  cotillons  in  New  York,  he  had 

9 


DAYS    OFF 

been  running  his  motor-car  through  immense  fatigues 
in  France  and  Italy,  and  had  returned  barely  in  time 
to  do  his  duty  by  his  salmon-river  in  Canada,  work 
his  new  boat  through  the  annual  cruise  of  the  yacht 
club,  finish  up  a  round  of  house-parties  at  Bar  Har 
bor  and  Lenox,  and  get  ready  for  the  partridge- 
shooting  in  England  with  his  friend  the  Duke  of 
Bangham, — it  was  a  dog's  life,  he  said,  and  he  had 
no  time  to  himself  at  all.  I  rather  pitied  him;  he 
looked  so  frayed.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  best  way 
for  a  man  or  a  woman  of  pleasure  to  get  a  day  off 
would  be  to  do  a  little  honest  work. 

"You  see  it  is  the  change  that  makes  the  charm  of 
a  day  off.  The  real  joy  of  leisure  is  known  only  to 
the  people  who  have  contracted  the  habit  of  work 
without  becoming  enslaved  to  the  vice  of  overwork. 

"A  hobby  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  a  man 
with  a  serious  vocation.  It  keeps  him  from  getting 
muscle-bound  in  his  own  task.  It  helps  to  save  him 
from  the  mistake  of  supposing  that  it  is  his  little 
tick-tack  that  keeps  the  universe  a-going.  It  leads 
him  out,  on  off  days,  away  from  his  own  garden 
corner  into  curious  and  interesting  regions  of  this 

10 


DAYS    OFF 

wide  and  various  earth,  of  which,  after  all,  he  is  a 
citizen. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  the  Reverend  Doctor 
McHook?  He  is  a  learned  preacher,  a  devoted 
churchman,  a  faithful  minister;  and  in  addition  to 
this  he  has  an  extra-parochial  affection  for  ants  and 
spiders.  He  can  spend  a  happy  day  in  watching 
the  busy  affairs  of  a  formicary,  and  to  observe  the 
progress  of  a  bit  of  spider-web  architecture  gives  him 
a  peculiar  joy.  There  are  some  severe  and  sour- 
complexioned  theologians  who  would  call  this  devo 
tion  to  objects  so  far  outside  of  his  parish  an  illicit 
passion.  But  to  me  it  seems  a  blessing  conferred  by 
heavenly  wisdom  upon  a  good  man,  and  I  doubt  not 
he  escapes  from  many  an  insoluble  theological  puz 
zle,  and  perhaps  from  many  an  unprofitable  religious 
wrangle,  to  find  refreshment  and  invigoration  in  the 
society  of  his  many-legged  friends." 

"You  are  moralizing  again,  Uncle  Peter,"  I  ob 
jected;  "or  at  least  you  are  getting  ready  to  do  so. 
Stop  it;  and  give  me  a  working  definition  of  the 
difference  between  a  hobby  and  a  fad." 

"Let  me  give  you  an  anecdote,"  said  he,,  "in- 
11 


DAYS    OFF 

stead  of  a  definition.  There  was  a  friend  of  mine 
who  went  to  visit  a  famous  asylum  for  the  insane. 
Among  the  patients  who  were  amusing  themselves 
in  the  great  hall,  he  saw  an  old  gentleman  with  a 
long  white  beard,  who  was  sitting  astride  of  a  chair, 
spurring  its  legs  with  his  heels,  holding  both  ends  of 
his  handkerchief  which  he  had  knotted  around  the 
back,  and  crying  'Get  up,  get  up!  G'long  boy, 
steady!'  with  the  utmost  animation.  'You  seem  to 
be  having  a  fine  ride,  sir,'  said  my  friend.  'Capital,' 
said  the  old  gentleman,  'this  is  a  first-rate  mount 
that  I  am  riding.'  'Permit  me  to  inquire,'  asked  my 
friend,  'whether  it  is  a  fad  or  a  hobby?'  'Why, 
certainly!'  replied  the  old  gentleman,  with  a  quiz 
zical  look.  'It  is  a  hobby,  you  see,  for  I  can  get  off 
whenever  I  have  a  mind  to.'  And  with  that  he  dis 
mounted  and  walked  into  the  garden. 

"It  is  just  this  liberty  of  getting  off  that  marks 
the  superiority  of  a  hobby  to  a  fad.  The  game 
that  you  feel  obliged  to  play  every  day  at  the 
same  hour  ceases  to  amuse  you  as  soon  as  you  real 
ize  that  it  is  a  diurnal  duty.  Regular  exercise  is 
good  for  the  muscles,  but  there  must  be  a  bit  of 

12 


DAYS    OFF 

pure  fun  mixed  with  the  sport  that  is  to  refresh  your 
heart. 

"A  tour  in  Europe,  carefully  mapped  out  with  an 
elaborate  itinerary  and  a  carefully  connected  time 
table,  may  be  full  of  instruction,  but  it  often  be 
comes  a  tax  upon  the  spirit  and  a  weariness  to  the 
flesh.  Compulsory  castles  and  mandatory  museums 
and  required  ruins  pall  upon  you,  as  you  hurry  from 
one  to  another,  vaguely  agitated  by  the  fear  that  you 
may  miss  something  that  is  marked  with  a  star  in 
the  guide-book,  and  so  be  compelled  to  confess  to 
your  neighbour  at  the  table-d'hote  that  you  have  failed 
to  see  what  he  promptly  and  joyfully  assures  you  is 
'the  best  thing  in  the  whole  trip/  Delicate  and 
sensitive  people  have  been  killed  by  taking  a  vacation 
in  that  way. 

"I  remember  meeting,  several  years  ago,  a  party  of 
personally  conducted  tourists  in  Venice,  at  the  hour 
which  their  itinerary  consecrated  to  the  enjoyment 
of  the  fine  arts  in  the  gallery  of  the  Academy.  Their 
personal  conductor  led  them  into  one  of  the  great 
rooms,  and  they  gathered  close  around  him,  with  an 
air  of  determination  on  their  tired  faces,  listening  to 

13 


DAYS    OFF 

his  brief,  dry  patter  about  the  famous  pictures  that 
the  room  contained.  He  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  holding  his  watch  in  his  hand  while  they  dis 
persed  themselves  around  the  walls,  looking  for  the 
paintings  which  they  ought  to  see,  like  chickens 
searching  for  scattered  grains  of  corn.  At  the  ex 
piration  of  five  minutes  he  clapped  his  hands  sharply; 
his  flock  scurried  back  to  him;  and  they  moved  on 
to  'do'  the  next  room. 

"I  suppose  that  was  one  way  of  seeing  Venice: 
but  I  would  much  rather  sit  at  a  little  table  on  the 
Riva  degli  Schiavoni,  with  a  plate  of  bread  and 
cheese  and  a  mezzo  of  Chianti  before  me,  watching 
the  motley  crowd  in  the  street  and  the  many-coloured 
sails  in  the  harbour;  or  spend  a  lazy  afternoon  in  a 
gondola,  floating  through  watery  alley-ways  that 
lead  nowhere,  and  under  the  fa9ades  of  beautiful 
palaces  whose  names  I  did  not  even  care  to  know. 
Of  course  I  should  like  to  see  a  fine  picture  or  a 
noble  church,  now  and  then;  but  only  one  at  a 
time,  if  you  please;  and  that  one  I  should  wish  to 
look  at  as  long  as  it  said  anything  to  me,  and  to 
revisit  as  often  as  it  called  me." 

14 


DAYS   OFF 

"That  is  because  you  have  no  idea  of  the  educa 
tional  uses  of  a  vacation,  Uncle  Peter,"  said  I.  "You 
are  an  unsystematic  person,  ::n  incorrigible  idler." 

"I  am,"  he  answered,  without  a  sign  of  penitence, 
"that  is  precisely  what  I  am, — in  my  days  off. 
Otherwise  I  should  not  get  the  good  of  them.  Even 
a  hobby,  on  such  days,  is  to  be  used  chiefly  for  its 
lateral  advantages, — the  open  doors  of  the  side 
shows  to  which  it  brings  you,  the  unexpected  oppor 
tunities  of  dismounting  and  tying  your  hobby  to  a 
tree,  while  you  follow  the  trail  of  something  strange 
and  attractive,  as  Moses  did  when  he  turned  aside 
from  his  shepherding  on  Mount  Horeb  and  climbed 
up  among  the  rocks  to  see  the  burning  bush. 

"The  value  of  a  favourite  pursuit  lies  not  only  in 
its  calculated  results  but  also  in  its  by-products. 
You  may  become  a  collector  of  almost  anything  in  the 
world, — orchids,  postage-stamps,  flint  arrowheads, 
cook-books,  varieties  of  the  game  of  cat's  cradle, — 
and  if  you  chase  your  trifle  in  the  right  spirit  it  will 
lead  you  into  pleasant  surprises  and  bring  you 
acquainted  with  delightful  or  amusing  people.  You 
remember  when  you  went  with  Professor  Rinas- 

15 


DAYS    OFF 

cimento  on  a  Delia  Robbia  hunt  among  the  hill 
towns  of  Italy,  and  how  you  came  by  accident  into 
that  deep  green  valley  where  there  are  more  night 
ingales  with  sweeter  voices  than  anywhere  else  on 
earth  ?  Your  best  trouvaille  on  that  expedition  was 
hidden  in  those  undreamed-of  nights  of  moonlight 
and  music.  And  it  was  when  you  were  chasing  first 
editions  of  Tennyson,  was  it  not,  that  you  discovered 
your  little  head  of  a  marble  faun,  which  you  vow  is 
by  Donatello,  or  one  of  his  pupils  ?  And  what  was 
it  that  you  told  me  about  the  rare  friend  you  found 
when  you  took  a  couple  of  days  oft  in  an  ancient 
French  town,  on  a  flying  journey  from  Rome  to 
London  ?  Believe  me,  dear  boy,  all  that  we  win  by 
effort  and  intention  is  sometimes  overtopped  by  a 
gift  that  is  conferred  upon  us  out  of  a  secret  and 
mysterious  generosity.  Wordsworth  was  right: 

"  *  Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 

Of  things  forever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking  ?  '  " 

"You  talk,"  said  I,  "as  if  you  thought  it  was  a 
man's  duty  to  be  happy." 

16 


DAYS   OFF 

'*!  do,"  he  answered  firmly,  "that  is  precisely  and 
definitely  what  I  think.  It  is  not  his  chief  duty, 
nor  his  only  duty,  nor  his  duty  all  the  time.  But 
the  normal  man  is  not  intended  to  go  through  this 
world  without  learning  what  happiness  means.  If 
he  does  so  he  misses  something  that  he  needs  to 
complete  his  nature  and  perfect  his  experience.  'Tis 
a  poor,  frail  plant  that  can  not  endure  the  wind  and 
the  rain  and  the  winter's  cold.  But  is  it  a  good 
plant  that  will  not  respond  to  the  quickening  touch 
of  spring  and  send  out  its  sweet  odours  in  the  em 
bracing  warmth  of  the  summer  night?  Suppose 
that  you  had  made  a  house  for  a  child,  and  given 
him  a  corner  of  the  garden  to  keep,  and  set  him 
lessons  and  tasks,  and  provided  him  with  teachers 
and  masters.  Would  you  be  satisfied  with  that 
child,  however  diligent  and  obedient,  if  you  found 
that  he  was  never  happy,  never  enjoyed  a  holiday, 
never  said  to  himself  and  to  you,  *  What  a  good  place 
this  is,  and  how  glad  I  am  to  live  here '  ?  " 

"Probably  not,"  I  answered,  "but  that  is  because 
I  should  be  selfish  enough  to  find  a  pleasure  of  my 
own  in  his  happiness.  I  should  like  to  take  a  day 

17 


DAYS    OFF 

off  with  him,  now  and  then,  and  his  gladness  would 
increase  my  enjoyment.  There  is  no  morality  in 
that.  It  is  simply  natural.  We  are  all  made  that 
way." 

"Well,"  said  my  Uncle  Peter,  "if  we  are  made 
that  way  we  must  take  it  into  account  in  our  philoso 
phy  of  life.  The  fact  that  it  is  natural  is  not  a  suf 
ficient  reason  for  concluding  that  it  is  bad.  There 
is  an  old  and  wonderful  book  which  describes  the 
creation  of  the  world  in  poetic  language;  and  when 
I  read  that  description  it  makes  me  feel  sure  that 
something  like  this  was  purposely  woven  into  the 
very  web  of  life.  After  the  six  mystical  days  of 
making  things  and  putting  things  in  order,  says  this 
beautiful  old  book,  the  Person  who  had  been  doing 
it  all  took  a  day  to  Himself,  in  which  He  *  rested 
from  all  the  things  that  He  had  created  and  made/ 
and  looked  at  them,  and  saw  how  good  they  were. 
His  work  was  not  ended,  of  course,  for  it  has  been 
going  on  ever  since,  and  will  go  on  for  ages  of  ages. 
But  in  the  midst  of  it  all  it  seemed  right  to  Him  to 
take  a  divine  day  off.  And  His  example  is  com 
mended  to  us  for  imitation  because  we  are  made  in 

18 


DAYS   OFF 

His  likeness  and  have  the  same  desire  to  enjoy  as 
well  as  to  create. 

"Do  you  remember  what  the  Wisest  of  all  Mas 
ters  said  to  his  disciples  when  they  were  outworn  by 
the  weight  of  their  work  and  the  pressure  of  the 
crowd  upon  them  ?  '  Come  ye  yourselves  apart  into 
a  lonely  place,  and  rest  awhile.'  He  would  never 
have  bidden  them  do  that,  unless  it  had  been  a  part 
of  their  duty  to  get  away  from  their  task  for  a  little. 
He  knew  what  was  in  man,  more  deeply  than  any 
one  else  had  ever  known;  and  so  he  invited  his 
friends  out  among  the  green  hills  and  beside  the 
quiet  waters  of  Galilee  to  the  strengthening  repose 
and  the  restoring  joy  which  are  only  to  be  found  in 
real  days  off." 

My  Uncle  Peter's  voice  had  grown  very  deep  and 
gentle  while  he  was  saying  these  things.  He  sat 
looking  far  away  into  the  rosy  heart  of  the  fire, 
where  the  bright  blaze  had  burned  itself  out,  and 
the  delicate  flamelets  of  blue  and  violet  were  playing 
over  the  glowing,  crumbling  logs.  It  seemed  as  if 
he  had  forgotten  where  we  were,  and  gone  a- wander 
ing  into  some  distant  region  of  memories  and  dreams. 

19 


DAYS   OFF 

I  almost  doubted  whether  to  call  him  back;  the 
silence  was  so  full  of  comfortable  and  friendly  in 
tercourse. 

"Well,"  said  I,  after  a  while,  "you  are  an  in 
corrigible  moralist,  but  certainly  a  most  uncon 
ventional  one.  The  orthodox  would  never  accept 
your  philosophy.  They  would  call  you  a  hedonist, 
or  something  equally  dreadful." 

"Let  them,"  he  said,  placidly. 

"But  tell  me":  I  asked,  "you  and  I  have  many 
pleasant  and  grateful  memories,  little  pictures  and 
stories,  which  seem  like  chapters  in  the  history  of 
this  doubtful  idea  of  yours:  suppose  that  I  should 
write  some  of  them  down,  purely  in  a  descriptive 
and  narrative  way,  without  committing  myself  to  any 
opinion  as  to  their  morality;  and  suppose  that  a 
few  of  your  opinions  and  prejudices,  briefly  ex 
pressed,  were  interspersed  in  the  form  of  chapters 
to  be  skipped:  would  a  book  like  that  symbolize 
and  illustrate  the  true  inwardness  of  the  day  off? 
How  would  it  do  to  make  such  a  book  ?  " 

"It  would  do,"  he  answered,  "provided  you 
wanted  to  do  it,  and  provided  you  did  not  try  to 

20 


DAYS    OFF 

prove  anything,  or  convince  anybody,  or  convey  any 
profitable  instruction." 

"But  would  any  one  read  it?"  I  asked.  "What 
do  you  think?" 

"I  think,"  said  he,  stretching  his  arms  over  his 
head  as  he  rose  and  turned  towards  his  den  to 
plunge  into  a  long  evening's  work,  "I  reckon,  and 
calculate,  and  fancy,  and  guess  that  a  few  people, 
a  very  few,  might  browse  through  such  a  book  in 
their  days  off." 


A     HOLIDAY     IN     A     VACATION 


A     HOLIDAY     IN     A     VACATION 

IT  was  really  a  good  little  summer  resort  where 
the  boy  and  I  were  pegging  away  at  our  vacation. 
There  were  the  mountains  conveniently  arranged, 
with  pleasant  trails  running  up  all  of  them,  carefully 
marked  with  rustic  but  legible  guide-posts;  and 
there  was  the  sea  comfortably  besprinked  with  isl 
ands,  among  which  one  might  sail  around  and  about, 
day  after  day,  not  to  go  anywhere,  but  just  to  enjoy 
the  motion  and  the  views;  and  there  were  cod  and 
haddock  swimming  over  the  outer  ledges  in  deep 
water,  waiting  to  be  fed  with  clams  at  any  timer 
and  on  fortunate  days  ridiculously  accommodating 
in  letting  themselves  be  pulled  up  at  the  end  of  a 
long,  thick  string  with  a  pound  of  lead  and  two  hooks 
tied  to  it.  There  were  plenty  of  places  considered 
proper  for  picnics,  like  Jordan's  Pond,  and  Great 
Cranberry  Island,  and  the  Russian  Tea-house,  and 
the  Log  Cabin  Tea-house,  where  you  would  be  sure 
to  meet  other  people  who  also  were  bent  on  picnick 
ing;  and  there  were  hotels  and  summer  cottages,  of 

25 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

various  degrees  of  elaboration,  filled  with  agreeable 
and  talkable  folk,  most  of  whom  were  connected  by 
occupation  or  marriage  with  the  rival  colleges  and 
universities,  so  that  their  ambitions  for  the  simple 
life  had  an  academic  thoroughness  and  regularity. 
There  were  dinner  parties,  and  tea  parties,  and 
garden  parties,  and  sea  parties,  and  luncheon  par 
ties,  masculine  and  feminine,  and  a  horse-show  at 
Bar  Harbor,  and  a  gymkhana  at  North  East,  and 
dances  at  all  the  Harbors,  where  Minerva  met 
Terpischore  on  a  friendly  footing  while  Socrates  sat 
out  on  the  veranda  with  Midas  discussing  the  great 
automobile  question  over  their  cigars. 

It  was  all  vastly  entertaining  and  well-ordered, 
and  you  would  think  that  any  person  with  a  prop 
erly  constituted  mind  ought  to  be  able  to  peg  through 
a  vacation  in  such  a  place  without  wavering.  But 
when  the  boy  confessed  to  me  that  he  felt  the  need 
of  a  few  "days  off "  in  the  big  woods  to  keep  him  up 
to  his  duty,  I  saw  at  once  that  the  money  spent  upon 
his  education  had  not  been  wasted;  for  here,  with 
out  effort,  he  announced  a  great  psychological 
fact — that  no  vacation  is  perfect  without  a  holiday  in 

26 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

it.  So  we  packed  our  camping-kit,  made  our  peace 
with  the  family,  tied  our  engagements  together  and 
cut  the  string  below  the  knot,  and  set  out  to  find 
freedom  and  a  little  fishing  in  the  region  around 
Lake  Nicatous. 

The  south-east  corner  of  the  State  of  Maine  is  a 
happy  remnant  of  the  ancient  wilderness.  The  rail 
roads  will  carry  you  around  it  in  a  day,  if  you  wish 
to  go  that  way,  making  a  big  oval  of  two  or  three 
hundred  miles  along  the  sea  and  by  the  banks  of  the 
Penobscot,  the  Mattawamkeag,  and  the  St.  Croix. 
But  if  you  wisely  wish  to  cross  the  oval  you  must 
ride,  or  go  afoot,  or  take  to  your  canoe;  probably 
you  will  have  to  try  all  three  methods  of  locomotion, 
for  the  country  is  a  mixed  quantity.  It  reminds  me 
of  what  I  once  heard  in  Stockholm :  that  the  Creator, 
when  the  making  of  the  rest  of  the  world  was  done, 
had  a  lot  of  fragments  of  land  and  water,  forests  and 
meadows,  mountains  and  valleys,  lakes  and  moors, 
left  over;  and  these  He  threw  together  to  make  the 
southern  part  of  Sweden.  I  like  that  kind  of  a 
promiscuous  country.  The  spice  of  life  grows  there. 

When  we  had  escaped  from  the  railraod  at  En- 
27 


A   HOLIDAY    IN   A   VACATION 

field  on  the  Penobscot,  we  slept  a  short  night  in  a 
room  over  a  country  store,  and  took  wagon  the  next 
morning  for  a  twenty-five  mile  drive.  At  the  som 
nolent  little  village  of  Burlington  we  found  our 
guides  waiting  for  us.  They  were  sitting  on  the 
green  at  the  cross-roads,  with  their  paddles  and  axes 
and  bundles  beside  them.  1  knew  at  a  glance  that 
they  were  ready  and  all  right:  Sam  Dam,  an  old  ex 
perienced,  seasoned  guide,  and  Harry,  a  good-look 
ing  young  woodsman  who  had  worked  in  lumber 
camps  and  on  "the  drive,"  but  had  never  been 
"guiding"  before.  He  was  none  the  worse  for  that, 
for  he  belonged  to  the  type  of  Maine  man  who  has 
the  faculty  of  learning  things  by  doing  them. 

As  we  rattled  along  the  road  the  farms  grew  poorer 
and  sparser,  until  at  last  we  came  into  the  woods, 
crossed  the  rocky  Passadumkeag  River,  and  so  over 
a  succession  of  horseback  hills  to  the  landing-place 
on  Nicatous  Stream,  where  the  canoes  were  hidden 
in  the  bushes.  Now  load  up  with  the  bundles  and 
boxes,  the  tent,  the  blanket-roll,  the  clothes-bag,  the 
provisions — all  the  stuff  that  is  known  as  "duffel" 
in  New  York,  and  "butins"  in  French  Canada,  and 

28 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

"wangan"  in  Maine — stow  it  all  away  judiciously 
so  that  the  two  light  craft  will  be  well  balanced;  and 
then  push  off,  bow  paddles,  and  let  us  taste  the  joy 
of  a  new  stream!  New  to  the  boy  and  me,  you 
understand;  but  to  the  guides  it  was  old  and  fa 
miliar,  a  link  in  a  much-travelled  route.  The  amber 
water  rippled  merrily  over  the  rocky  bars  where  the 
river  was  low,  and  in  the  still  reaches  it  spread  out 
broad  and  smooth,  covered  with  white  lilies  and 
fringed  with  tall  grasses.  All  along  the  pleasant  way 
Sam  entertained  us  with  memories  of  the  stream. 

"Ye  see  that  grassy  p'int,  jest  ahead  of  us  ?  Three 
weeks  ago  I  was  comin'  down  for  the  mail,  and  there 
was  three  deer  a-stannin'  on  that  p'int,  a  buck  and 
a  doe  and  a  fawn.  And " 

"Up  in  them  alders  there's  a  little  spring  brook 
comes  in.  Good  fishin'  there  in  high  water.  But 
now?  Well " 

"Jest  beyond  that  bunch  o'  rocks  last  fall  there 
was  three  fellers  comin'  down  in  a  canoe,  and  a  big 
bear  come  out  and  started  'cross  river.  The  gun  was 
in  the  case  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe,  and  one  o* 
the  fellers  had  a  pistol,  and  so " 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

Beyond  a  doubt  it  was  so,  always  has  been  so,  and 
always  will  be  so — just  so,  on  every  river  travelled 
by  canoes,  until  the  end  of  time.  The  sportsman 
travels  through  a  happy  interval  between  memories 
of  failure  and  expectation  of  success.  But  the  river 
and  the  wind  in  the  trees  sing  to  him  by  the  way, 
and  there  are  wild  flowers  along  the  banks,  and  every 
turn  in  the  stream  makes  a  new  picture  of  beauty. 
Thus  we  came  leisurely  and  peacefully  to  the  place 
where  the  river  issued  from  the  lake;  and  here  we 
must  fish  awhile,  for  it  was  reported  that  the  land 
locked  salmon  lay  in  the  narrow  channel  just  above 
the  dam. 

Sure  enough,  no  sooner  had  the  fly  crossed  the 
current  than  there  was  a  rise;  and  at  the  second  cast 
a  pretty  salmon  of  two  and  a  half  pounds  was  hooked, 
played,  and  landed.  Three  more  were  taken,  of 
which  the  boy  got  two — and  his  were  the  biggest. 
Fish  know  nothing  of  the  respect  due  to  age.  They 
leaped  well,  those  little  salmon,  flashing  clean  out  of 
the  water  again  and  again  with  silvery  gleams.  But 
on  the  whole  they  did  not  play  as  strongly  nor  as 
long  as  their  brethren  (called  ouananiche^  in  the 

30 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

wild  rapids  where  the  Upper  Saguenay  breaks  from 
Lake  St.  John.  The  same  fish  are  always  more 
lively,  powerful,  and  enduring  when  they  live  in 

swift  water,  battling  with  the  current,  than  when  they 
» 

vegetate  in  the  quiet  depths  of  a  lake.  But  if  a 
salmon  must  live  in  a  luxurious  home  of  that  kind, 
Nicatous  is  a  good  one,  for  the  water  is  clear,  the 
shores  are  clean,  the  islands  plenty,  and  the  bays 
deep  and  winding. 

At  the  club-house,  six  miles  up  the  lake,  where  we 
arrived  at  candle-lighting,  we  found  such  kindly  wel 
come  and  good  company  that  we  tarried  for  three 
days  in  that  woodland  Capua,  discussing  the  further 
course  of  our  expedition.  Everybody  was  willing  to 
lend  us  aid  and  comfort.  The  sociable  hermit  who 
had  summered  for  the  last  twenty  years  in  his  tiny 
cabin  on  the  point  gave  us  friendly  counsel  and  ex 
cellent  large  blueberries.  The  matron  provided  us 
with  daily  bags  of  most  delicate  tea,  a  precaution 
against  the  native  habit  of  "squatting"  the  leaves — 
that  is,  boiling  and  squeezing  them  to  extract  the 
tannin.  The  little  lady  called  Katharyne  (a  fearless 
forest-maid  who  roamed  the  woods  in  leathern  jacket 

31 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

and  short  blue  skirt,  followed  by  an  enormous  and 
admiring  guide,  and  caught  big  fish  everywhere) 
offered  to  lend  us  anything  in  her  outfit,  from  a  pack- 
basket  to  a  darning-needle.  It  was  cheerful  to  meet 
with  such  general  encouragement  in  our  small  ad 
venture.  But  the  trouble  was  to  decide  which  way 
to  go. 

Nicatous  lies  near  the  top  of  a  watershed  about  a 
thousand  feet  high.  From  the  region  round  about 
it  at  least  seven  canoeable  rivers  descend  to  civiliza 
tion.  The  Narraguagus  and  the  Union  on  the  south, 
the  Passadumkeag  on  the  west,  the  Sisladobsis  and 
the  St.  Croix  on  the  north,  and  the  two  branches  of 
the  Machias  or  Kowahshiscook  on  the  east;  to  say 
nothing  of  the  Westogus  and  the  Hackmatack  and 
the  Mopang.  Here  were  names  to  stir  the  fancy  and 
paralyze  the  tongue.  What  a  joy  to  follow  one  of 
these  streams  clear  through  its  course  and  come  out 
of  the  woods  in  our  own  craft — from  Nicatous  to  the 
sea! 

It  was  perhaps  something  in  the  name,  some  wild 
generosity  of  alphabetical  expenditure,  that  led  us 
to  the  choice  of  the  Kowahshiscook,  or  west  branch 

32 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

of  the  Machias  River.  Or  perhaps  it  was  because 
neither  of  our  guides  had  been  down  that  stream, 
and  so  the  whole  voyage  would  be  an  exploration, 
with  everybody  on  the  same  level  of  experience.  An 
easy  day's  journey  across  the  lake,  and  up  Comb's 
Brook,  where  the  trout  were  abundant,  and  by  a 
two-mile  carry  into  Horseshoe  Lake,  and  then  over 
a  narrow  hardwood  ridge,  brought  us  to  Green 
Lake,  where  we  camped  for  the  night  in  a  new  log 
shanty. 

Here  we  were  at  the  topmost  source — fons  et  origo 
— of  our  chosen  river.  This  single  spring,  crystal- 
clear  and  ice-cold,  gushing  out  of  the  hillside  in  a 
forest  of  spruce  and  yellow  birch  and  sugar  maple, 
gave  us  the  clue  that  we  must  follow  for  a  week 
through  the  wilderness. 

But  how  changed  was  that  transparent  rivulet 
after  it  entered  the  lake.  There  the  water  was  pale 
green,  translucent  but  semi-opaque,  for  at  a  depth 
of  two  or  three  feet  the  bottom  was  hardly  visible. 
The  lake  was  filled,  I  believe,  with  some  minute 
aquatic  growth  which  in  the  course  of  a  thousand 
years  or  so  would  transform  it  into  a  meadow.  But 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

meantime  the  mystical  water  was  inhabited,  es 
pecially  around  the  mouth  of  the  spring,  by  huge 
trout  to  whom  tradition  ascribed  a  singular  and 
provoking  disposition.  They  would  take  the  bait, 
when  the  fancy  moved  them :  but  the  fly  they  would 
always  refuse,  ignoring  it  with  calm  disdain,  or 
slapping  at  it  with  their  tails  and  shoving  it  out  of 
their  way  as  they  played  on  the  surface  in  the  sum 
mer  evenings.  This  was  the  mysterious  reputation 
of  the  trout  of  Green  Lake,  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation  of  anglers;  and  this  spell 
we  had  come  to  break,  by  finding  the  particular  fly 
that  would  be  irresistible  to  those  secret  epicures  and 
the  psychological  moment  of  the  day  when  they 
could  no  longer  resist  temptation.  We  tried  all  the 
flies  in  our  books;  at  sunset,  in  the  twilight,  by  the 
light  of  the  stars  and  the  rising  moon,  at  dawn  and 
at  sunrise.  Not  one  trout  did  we  capture  with  the 
fly  in  Green  Lake.  Nor  could  we  solve  the  mystery 
of  those  reluctant  fish.  The  boy  made  a  scientific 
suggestion  that  they  got  plenty  of  food  from  the 
cloudy  water,  which  served  them  as  a  kind  of  soup. 
My  guess  was  that  their  sight  was  impaired  so  that 

34 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

they  could  not  see  the  fly.  But  Sam  said  it  was 
"jest  pure  cussedness."  Many  things  in  the  world 
happen  from  that  cause,  and  as  a  rule  it  is  best  not 
to  fret  over  them. 

The  trail  from  Green  Lake  to  Campbell  Lake  was 
easily  found;  it  followed  down  the  outlet  about  a 
mile.  But  it  had  been  little  used  for  many  years 
and  the  undergrowth  had  almost  obliterated  it. 
Rain  had  been  falling  all  the  morning  and  the  bushes 
were  wetter  than  water.  On  such  a  carry  travel  is 
slow.  We  had  three  trips  to  make  each  way  before 
we  could  get  the  stuff  and  the  canoes  over.  Then  a 
short  voyage  across  the  lake,  and  another  mile  of 
the  same  sort  of  portage,  after  which  we  came  out 
with  the  last  load,  an  hour  before  sundown,  on  the 
shore  of  the  Big  Sabeo.  This  lake  was  quite  dif 
ferent  from  the  others ;  wide  and  open,  with  smooth 
sand-beaches  all  around  it.  The  little  hills  which 
encircled  it  had  been  burned  over  years  ago;  and 
the  blueberry  pickers  had  renewed  the  fire  from  year 
to  year.  The  landscape  was  light  green  and  yellow, 
beneath  a  low,  cloudy  sky;  no  forest  in  sight,  except 
one  big,  black  island  far  across  the  water. 

35 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

The  place  where  we  came  out  was  not  attractive; 
but  nothing  is  more  foolish  than  to  go  on  looking 
for  a  pretty  camp-ground  after  daylight  has  begun 
to  wane.  When  the  sun  comes  within  the  width  of 
two  paddle-blades  of  the  horizon,  if  you  are  wise  you 
will  take  the  first  bit  of  level  ground  within  reach  of 
wood  and  water,  and  make  haste  to  get  the  camp 
in  order  before  dark.  So  we  pitched  our  blue  tent 
on  the  beach,  with  a  screen  of  bushes  at  the  back  to 
shelter  us  from  the  wind;  broke  a  double  quantity 
of  fir  branches  for  our  bed,  to  save  us  from  the 
midnight  misery  of  sand  in  the  blankets;  cut  a 
generous  supply  of  firewood  from  a  dead  pine-tree 
which  stood  conveniently  at  hand;  and  settled  down 
in  comfort  for  the  night. 

What  could  have  been  better  than  our  supper, 
cooked  in  the  open  air  and  eaten  by  fire-light !  True, 
we  had  no  plates — they  had  been  forgotten — but  we 
never  mourned  for  them.  We  made  a  shift  to  get 
along  with  the  tops  of  some  emptied  tin  cans  and 
the  cover  of  a  kettle;  and  from  these  rude  platters, 
(quite  as  serviceable  as  the  porcelain  of  Limoges  or 
Sevres)  we  consumed  our  toast,  and  our  boiled  po- 

36 


On  such  a  carry  travel  is  slow. 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

tatoes  with  butter,  and  our  trout  prudently  brought 
from  Horseshoe  Lake,  and,  best  of  all,  our  bacon. 

Do  you  remember  what  Charles  Lamb  says  about 
roast  pig?  How  he  falls  into  an  ecstasy  of  lauda 
tion,  spelling  the  very  name  with  small  capitals,  as 
if  the  lower  case  were  too  mean  for  such  a  delicacy, 
and  breaking  away  from  the  cheap  encomiums  of 
the  vulgar  tongue  to  hail  it  in  sonorous  Latin  as 
princeps  obsoniorum!  There  is  some  truth  in  his 
compliments,  no  doubt;  but  they  are  wasteful,  ex 
cessive,  imprudent.  For  if  all  this  praise  is  to  be 
lavished  on  plain,  fresh,  immature,  roast  pig,  what 
adjectives  shall  we  find  to  do  justice  to  that  riper, 
richer,  more  subtle  and  sustaining  viand,  broiled 
bacon?  On  roast  pig  a  man  can  not  work;  often 
he  can  not  sleep,  if  he  have  partaken  of  it  immoder 
ately.  But  bacon  "brings  to  its  sweetness  no  sa 
tiety."  It  strengthens  the  arm  while  it  satisfies  the 
palate.  Crisp,  juicy,  savory;  delicately  salt  as  the 
breeze  that  blows  from  the  sea;  faintly  pungent  as 
the  blue  smoke  of  incense  wafted  from  a  clean  wood- 
fire;  aromatic,  appetizing,  nourishing,  a  stimulant 
to  the  hunger  which  it  appeases,  'tis  the  matured 

37 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

bloom  and  consummation  of  the  mild  little  pig, 
spared  by  foresight  for  a  nobler  fate  than  juvenile 
roasting,  and  brought  by  art  and  man's  device  to  a 
perfection  surpassing  nature.  All  the  problems  of 
woodland  cookery  are  best  saved  by  the  baconian 
method.  And  when  we  say  of  one  escaping  great 
disaster  that  he  has  "saved  his  bacon,"  we  say  that 
the  physical  basis  and  the  quintessential  comfort  of 
his  life  are  still  untouched  and  secure. 

Steadily  fell  the  rain  all  that  night,  plentiful,  per 
sistent,  drumming  on  the  tightened  canvas  over  our 
heads,  waking  us  now  and  then  to  pleasant  thoughts 
of  a  rising  stream  and  good  water  for  the  morrow. 
Breaking  clouds  rolled  before  the  sunrise,  and  the 
lake  was  all  a-glitter  when  we  pushed  away  in  danc 
ing  canoes  to  find  the  outlet.  This  is  one  of  the 
problems  in  which  the  voyager  learns  to  know  some 
thing  of  the  infinite  reserve,  the  humorous  subtlety, 
the  hide-and-seek  quality  in  nature.  Where  is  it — 
that  mysterious  outlet  ?  Behind  yonder  long  point  ? 
Nothing  here  but  a  narrow  arm  of  the  lake.  At  the 
end  of  this  deep  bay?  Nothing  here  but  a  little 
brook  flowing  in.  At  the  back  of  the  island  ?  Noth- 

38 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

ing  here  but  a  landlocked  lagoon.  Must  we  make 
the  circuit  of  the  whole  shore  before  we  find  the  way 
out?  Stop  a  moment.  What  are  those  two  taller 
clumps  of  bushes  on  the  edge  of  this  broad  curving 
meadow — down  there  in  the  corner,  do  you  see? 
Turn  back,  go  close  to  the  shore,  swing  around  the 
nearer  clump,  and  here  we  are  in  the  smooth  amber 
stream,  slipping  silently,  furtively,  down  through  the 
meadow,  as  if  it  would  steal  away  for  a  merry  jest 
and  leave  us  going  round  and  round  the  lake  till 
nightfall. 

Easily  and  swiftly  the  canoes  slide  along  with  the 
little  river,  winding  and  doubling  through  the  wide, 
wild  field,  travelling  three  miles  to  gain  one.  The 
rushes  nod  and  glisten  around  us ;  the  bending  reeds 
whisper  as  we  push  between  them,  cutting  across  a 
point.  Follow  the  stream;  we  know  not  its  course, 
but  we  know  that  if  we  go  with  it,  though  it  be  a 
wayward  and  tricksy  guide,  it  will  bring  us  out — 
but  not  too  soon,  we  hope! 

Here  is  a  lumberman's  dam,  broad-based,  solid, 
and  ugly,  a  work  of  infinite  labour,  standing  lonely, 
deserted,  here  in  the  heart  of  the  wilderness.  Now 

39 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

we  must  carry  across  it.  But  it  shall  help  while  it 
hinders  us.  Pry  up  the  creaking  sluice-gates,  send 
ing  a  fresh  head  of  water  down  the  channel  along 
with  us,  lifting  us  over  the  shallows,  driving  us  on 
through  the  rocky  places,  buoyant,  alert,  and  re 
joicing,  till  we  come  again  to  a  level  meadow,  and 
the  long,  calm,  indolent  reaches  of  river. 

Look  on  the  right  there,  under  the  bushes.  There 
is  a  cold,  still  brook,  slipping  into  the  lazy  river; 
and  there  we  must  try  the  truth  of  the  tales  we  have 
heard  of  the  plentiful  trout  of  Machias.  Let  the 
flies  fall  light  by  the  mouth  of  the  brook,  caressing, 
inviting.  Nothing  there?  Then  push  the  canoe 
through  the  interlaced  alders,  quietly,  slowly  up  the 
narrow  stream,  till  a  wider  pool  lies  open  before  you. 
Now  let  the  rod  swing  high  in  the  air,  lifting  the  line 
above  the  bushes,  dropping  the  flies  as  far  away  as 
you  can  on  the  dark-brown  water.  See  how  quickly 
the  answer  comes,  in  two  swift  golden  flashes  out  of 
the  depths  of  the  sleeping  pool.  This  is  a  pretty 
brace  of  trout,  from  thirty  to  forty  ounces  of  thorough 
bred  fighting  pluck,  and  the  spirit  that  will  not  sur 
render.  If  they  only  knew  that  their  strength  would 

40 


A   HOLIDAY    IN   A   VACATION 

be  doubled  by  acting  together,  they  soon  would 
tangle  your  line  in  the  roots  or  break  your  rod  in  the 
alders.  But  all  the  time  they  are  fighting  against 
each  other,  making  it  easy  to  bring  them  up  to  the 
net  and  land  them — a  pair  of  beauties,  evenly 
matched  in  weight  and  in  splendour,  gleaming  with 
rich  iridescent  hues  of  orange  and  green  and  pea 
cock-blue  and  crimson.  A  few  feet  beyond  you  find 
another,  a  smaller  fish,  and  then  one  a  little  larger; 
and  so  you  go  on  up  the  stream,  threading  the  boat 
through  the  alders,  with  patience  and  infinite  caution, 
carefully  casting  your  flies  when  the  stream  opens 
out  to  invite  them,  till  you  have  rounded  your  dozen 
of  trout  and  are  wisely  contented.  Then  you  go 
backward  down  the  brook — too  narrow  for  turning — 
and  join  the  other  canoe  that  waits,  floating  leisurely 
on  with  the  river. 

There  is  a  change  now  in  the  character  of  the 
stream.  The  low  hills  that  have  been  standing  far 
away,  come  close  together  from  either  side,  as  if  they 
meant  to  bar  any  further  passage;  and  the  dreamy 
river  wakes  up  to  wrestle  its  way  down  the  narrow 
valley.  There  are  no  long,  sleepy  reaches,  no  wide, 

41 


A   HOLIDAY    IN   A   VACATION 

easy  curves,  now;  but  sharp,  quick  turns  from  one 
rocky  ledge  to  another;  and  enormous  stones  piled 
and  scattered  along  the  river-bed;  and  sudden  de 
scents  from  level  to  level  as  if  by  the  broad  steps  of 
a  ruined,  winding  stairway.  The  water  pushes,  and 
rushes,  and  roars,  and  foams,  and  frets — no,  it  does 
not  fret,  after  all,  for  there  is  always  something  joy 
ous  and  exultant  in  its  voice,  a  note  of  the  gaudia 
certaminis  by  which  the  struggle  of  life  is  animated, 
a  note  of  confident  strength,'  sure  that  it  can  find  or 
make  a  way,  through  all  obstacles,  to  its  goal.  This 
is  what  I  feel  in  a  river,  especially  a  little  river  flow 
ing  through  a  rough,  steep  country.  This  is  what 
makes  me  love  it.  It  seems  to  be  thoroughly  alive, 
and  glad  to  be  alive,  and  determined  to  go  on,  and 
certain  that  it  will  win  through. 

Our  canoes  go  with  the  river,  but  no  longer  easily 
or  lazily.  Every  step  of  the  way  must  be  carefully 
chosen;  now  close  to  the  steep  bank  where  the 
bushes  hang  over;  now  in  mid-stream  among  the 
huge  pointed  rocks;  now  by  the  lowest  point  of  a 
broad  sunken  ledge  where  the  water  sweeps  smoothly 
over  to  drop  into  the  next  pool.  The  boy  and  I, 

42 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

using  the  bow  paddles,  are  in  the  front  of  the  ad 
venture,  guessing  at  the  best  channel,  pushing  aside 
suddenly  to  avoid  treacherous  stones  hidden  with 
dark  moss,  dashing  swiftly  down  the  long  dancing 
rapids,  with  the  shouting  of  the  waves  in  our  ears 
and  the  sprinkle  of  the  foam  in  our  faces. 

From  side  to  side  of  the  wild  avenue  through  the 
forest  we  turn  and  dart,  zigzagging  among  the  rocks. 
Thick  woods  shut  us  in  on  either  hand,  pines  and 
hemlocks  and  firs  and  spruces,  beeches  and  maples 
arid  yellow-birches,  alders  with  their  brown  seed- 
cones,  and  mountain-ashes  with  their  scarlet  berries. 
All  four  of  us  know  the  way;  there  can  be  no  doubt 
about  that,  for  down  the  river  is  the  only  road  out. 
But  none  of  us  knows  the  path;  for  this  is  a  new 
stream,  you  remember,  and  between  us  and  our 
journey's  end  there  lie  a  thousand  possible  difficul 
ties,  accidents,  and  escapes. 

The  boy  had  one  of  them.  His  canoe  struck  on  a 
ledge,  in  passing  over  a  little  fall,  swung  around 
sidewise  to  the  current,  and  half  filled  with  water; 
he  and  Harry  had  to  leap  out  into  the  stream 
waist-deep.  Sam  and  I  made  merry  at  their  plight. 

43 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

But  Nemesis  was  waiting  for  me  a  few  miles 
below. 

All  the  pools  were  full  of  fine  trout.  While  the 
men  were  cooking  lunch  in  a  grove  of  balsams  I 
waded  down-stream  to  get  another  brace  of  fish. 
Stepping  carefully  among  the  rocks,  I  stood  about 
thigh-deep  in  my  rubber  boots  and  cast  across  the 
pool.  But  the  best  bit  of  water  was  a  little  beyond 
my  reach.  A  step  further!  There  is  a  yellow  bit  of 
gravel  that  will  give  a  good  footing.  Intent  upon 
the  flight  of  my  flies,  I  took  the  step  without  care. 
But  the  yellow  patch  under  the  brown  water  was  not 
gravel;  it  was  the  face  of  a  rock  polished  smoother 
than  glass.  Gently,  slowly,  irresistibly,  and  with 
deep  indignation  I  subsided  backward  into  the  cold 
pool.  The  rubber  boots  filled  with  water  and  the 
immersion  was  complete.  Then  I  stood  up  and  got 
the  trout.  When  I  returned  to  the  camp-fire,  the 
others  laughed  at  me  uproariously,  and  the  boy 
said:  "Why  did  you  go  in  swimming  with  your 
clothes  on?  Were  you  expecting  a  party  of  ladies 
to  come  down  the  stream?" 

Our  tenting-places  were  new  every  night  and  for- 
44 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

saken  every  morning.  Each  of  them  had  a  charm  of 
its  own.  One  was  under  a  great  yellow-birch  tree, 
close  to  the  bank  of  the  river.  Another  was  on  top 
of  a  bare  ridge  in  the  middle  of  a  vast  blueberry 
patch,  where  the  luscious  fruit,  cool  and  fresh  with 
the  morning  dew,  spread  an  immense  breakfast- 
table  to  tempt  us.  The  most  beautiful  of  all  was  at 
the  edge  of  a  fir-wood,  with  a  huge  rock,  covered 
with  moss  and  lichen,  sloping  down  before  us  in  a 
broad,  open  descent  of  thirty  feet  to  the  foaming 
stream.  The  full  moon  climbed  into  the  sky  as  we 
sat  around  our  camp-fire,  and  showed  her  face  above 
the  dark,  pointed  tree-tops.  The  winding  vale  was 
flooded  with  silver  radiance  that  rested  on  river  and 
rock  and  tree-trunk  and  multidinous  leafage  like  an 
enchantment  of  tranquillity.  The  curling  currents 
and  the  floating  foam,  up  and  down  the  stream,  were 
glistening  and  sparkling,  ever  moving,  yet  never 
losing  their  position.  The  shouting  of  the  water 
melted  to  music,  in  which  a  thousand  strange  and 
secret  voices,  near  and  far  away,  blending  and  al 
ternating  from  rapid  to  rapid  and  fall  to  fall,  seemed 
like  hidden  choirs,  answering  one  another  from 

45 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

place  to  place.  The  sense  of  struggle,  of  pressure 
and  resistance,  of  perpetual  change,  was  gone;  and 
in  its  stead  there  was  a  feeling  of  infinite  quietude, 
of  perfect  balance  and  repose,  of  deep  accord  and 
amity  between  the  watching  heavens  and  the  waiting 
earth,  in  which  the  conflicts  of  existence  seemed  very 
distant  and  of  little  meaning,  and  the  peace  of  nature 
prophesied 

"  That  one,  far-off  divine  event 
Towards  which  the  whole  creation  moves." 

Thus  for  six  days  and  nights  we  kept  company 
with  our  little  river,  following  its  guidance  and  enjoy 
ing  all  its  changing  moods.  Sometimes  it  led  us 
through  a  smooth  country,  across  natural  meadows, 
alder-fringed,  where  the  bed  of  the  stream  was  of 
amber  sand  and  polished  gravel,  and  the  water  rip 
pled  gently  over  the  shallow  bars,  and  there  were 
deep  holes  underneath  the  hanging  bushes,  where 
the  trout  hid  from  the  heat  of  the  noon  sun.  Some 
times  it  had  carved  a  way  for  itself  over  huge  beds 
of  solid  rock,  where,  if  the  slope  was  gentle,  we 
could  dart  arrow-like  along  the  channel  from  pool 
to  pool;  but  if  the  descent  was  steep  and  broken,  we 

46 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

must  get  out  of  the  canoes  and  let  them  down  with 
ropes.  Sometimes  the  course  ran  for  miles  through 
evergreen  forests,  where  the  fragrance  of  the  fir- 
trees  filled  the  air;  and  again  we  came  out  into  the 
open  regions  where  thousands  of  acres  of  wild  blue 
berries  were  spread  around  us. 

I  call  them  wild  because  no  man's  hand  has 
planted  them.  Yet  they  are  cultivated  after  a 
fashion.  Every  two  or  three  years  a  district  of  these 
hills  is  set  on  fire,  and  in  the  burned  ground,  the 
next  spring,  the  berry-bushes  come  up  innumerable. 
The  following  fall  they  are  loaded  so  heavily  with 
blueberries  that  the  harvest  is  gathered  with  rakes, 
each  of  which  has  a  cup  underneath  it  into  which 
the  berries  fall  as  the  rake  is  thrust  through  the 
bushes.  The  land  is  owned  by  two  or  three  large 
proprietors,  who  employ  men  and  women  to  gather 
the  crop,  paying  them  a  few  cents  a  bushel  for  pick 
ing.  Sometimes  the  proprietor  leases  his  land  to  a 
factor,  who  pays  a  royalty  on  every  bushel  turned 
in  at  the  factory  in  some  village  on  the  railroad  or 
by  the  seashore,  where  the  berries  are  canned  or 
dried. 

47 


A   HOLIDAY   IN  A   VACATION 

One  day  we  came  upon  a  camp  of  these  berry- 
pickers  by  the  river-side.  Our  first  notice  of  their 
proximity  was  the  sight  of  a  raft  with  an  arm-chair 
tied  in  the  centre  of  it,  stranded  upon  the  rocks  in  a 
long,  fierce  rapid.  Imagine  how  this  looked  to  us 
after  we  had  been  five  days  in  the  wilderness!  An 
arm-chair  sitting  up  sedately  in  the  middle  of  the 
rapids!  What  did  it  mean?  Perhaps  some  va 
grant  artist  had  been  exploring  the  river,  and  had 
fixed  his  seat  there  in  order  to  paint  a  picture.  Per 
haps  some  lazy  fisherman  had  found  a  good  pool 
amid  those  boiling  waters,  and  had  arranged  to  take 
his  ease  while  he  whipped  that  fishy  place  with  his 
flies.  The  mystery  was  solved  when  we  rounded  the 
next  point;  for  there  we  found  the  berry-pickers 
taking  their  nooning  in  a  cluster  of  little  slab-shanties. 
They  were  friendly  folks,  men,  women,  and  chil 
dren,  but  they  knew  nothing  about  the  river;  had 
never  been  up  farther  than  the  place  where  the  boys 
had  left  their  raft  in  the  high  water  a  week  ago; 
had  never  been  down  at  all;  could  not  tell  how 
many  falls  there  were  below,  nor  whether  the  mouth 
was  five  or  fifty  miles  away.  They  had  come  in  by 

48 


A   HOLIDAY    IN   A   VACATION 

the  road,  which  crossed  the  river  at  this  point,  and 
by  the  road  they  would  go  back  when  the  berries 
were  picked.  They  wanted  to  know  whether  we 
were  prospecting  for  lumber  or  thinking  of  going 
into  the  berry  business.  We  tried  to  explain  the 
nature  of  our  expedition  to  them,  but  I  reckon  we 
failed. 

These  were  the  only  people  that  we  really  met  on 
our  journey,  though  we  saw  a  few  others  far  off  on 
some  bare  hill.  We  did  not  encounter  a  single  boat 
or  canoe  on  the  river.  But  we  saw  the  deer  come 
down  to  the  shore,  and  stand  shoulder-deep  among 
the  golden-rod  and  purple  asters.  We  saw  the 
ruffled  grouse  whir  through  the  thickets  and  the  wild 
ducks  skitter  down  the  stream  ahead  of  us.  We 
saw  the  warblers  and  the  cedar-birds  gathering  in 
flocks  for  their  southward  flight,  the  muskrats  mak 
ing  their  houses  ready  for  the  winter,  and  the  porcu 
pines  dumbly  meditating  and  masticating  among  the 
branches  of  the  young  poplar-trees.  We  also  had  a 
delightful  interview  with  a  wild-cat,  and  almost  a 
thrilling  adventure  with  a  bear. 

The  boy  and  I  had  started  out  from  camp  for  an 
49 


A  HOLIDAY   IN  A  VACATION 

hour  of  evening  fishing.  He  went  down  the  stream 
some  distance  ahead  of  me,  as  I  supposed,  (though, 
as  I  afterward  found,  he  had  made  a  little  detour 
and  turned  back).  I  was  making  my  way  painfully 
through  a  spruce  thicket  when  I  heard  a  loud  crash 
and  crackling  of  dead  branches.  " Hallo !"  I  cried; 
"have  you  fallen  down?  Are  you  hurt?"  No  an 
swer.  "Hallo,  Teddy!"  I  shouted  again;  "what's 
the  matter  ?  "  Another  tremendous  crash,  and  then 
dead  silence. 

I  dropped  my  rod  and  pushed  as  rapidly  as  possi 
ble  in  the  direction  from  which  the  sound  had  come. 
There  I  found  a  circle  about  fifty  feet  in  diameter 
torn  and  trampled  as  if  a  circus  had  been  there. 
The  ground  was  trodden  bare.  Trees  three  and 
four  inches  thick  were  broken  off.  The  bark  of  the 
larger  trees  was  stripped  away.  The  place  was  a 
ruin.  A  few  paces  away,  among  the  bushes,  there 
was  a  bear  trap  with  some  claws  in  it,  and  an  iron 
chain  attached  to  the  middle  of  a  clog  about  four  feet 
long.  The  log  hovel  in  which  the  trap  had  been  set, 
we  found  later,  a  little  way  back  on  an  old  wood 
road.  Evidently  a  bear  had  been  caught  there,  per- 

50 


A   HOLIDAY   IN  A  VACATION 

haps  two  or  three  days  before  we  came.  He  had 
dragged  the  trap  and  the  chained  clog  down  into 
the  thicket.  There  he  had  stayed,  tearing  up  things 
generally  in  his  efforts  to .  escape  from  his  encum 
brance,  and  resting  quietly  in  the  intervals  of  his 
fury.  My  approach  had  startled  him  and  he  had 
made  the  first  crash  that  I  heard.  Then  he  lay  low 
and  listened.  My  second  inconsiderate  shout  of 
"Hallo,  Teddy!"  had  put  such  an  enormous  fear 
into  him  that  he  dashed  through  the  trees,  caught 
the  foolishly  chained  clog  across  two  of  them,  and, 
tearing  himself  loose,  escaped  with  the  loss  of  a  couple 
of  toes.  Thus  ended  our  almost  adventure  with  a 
bear.  How  glad  the  old  fellow  must  have  been! 

The  moral  is  this :  If  you  want  a  bear,  you  should 
set  your  trap  with  the  clog  chained  at  one  end,  not 
around  the  middle:  then  it  will  trail  through  the 
woods  and  not  break  loose.  But  the  best  way  is  not 
to  want  a  bear. 

Our  last  camp  was  just  at  the  head  of  Holmes's 
Fall,  a  splendid  ravine  down  which  the  river  rushes 
in  two  foaming  leaps.  Here  in  the  gray  of  the  morn 
ing  we  lugged  our  canoes  and  our  camp-kit  around 

51 


A   HOLIDAY    IN   A   VACATION 

the  cataract,  and  then  launched  away  for  the  end  of 
our  voyage.  It  was  full  of  variety,  for  the  river  was 
now  cutting  its  course  through  a  series  of  ridges,  and 
every  mile  was  broken  with  rapids  and  larger  falls. 
There  was  but  one  other  place,  however,  where  we 
had  to  make  a  portage.  I  believe  it  was  called 
Grand  Falls.  After  that,  the  stream  was  smooth  and 
quiet.  The  tall  maples  and  ashes  and  elms  stood 
along  the  banks  as  if  they  had  been  planted  for  a 
park.  The  first  faint  touch  of  autumn  colour  was 
beginning  to  illuminate  their  foliage.  A  few  weeks 
later  the  river  would  be  a  long,  winding  avenue  of 
gold  and  crimson,  for  every  tree  would  redouble  its 
splendour  in  the  dark,  unruffled  water. 

At  one  place,  where  there  were  a  few  cleared 
fields  bordering  on  the  river,  we  saw  two  or  three 
houses  and  barns,  and  supposed  we  were  near  the 
end  of  our  voyage.  This  was  about  nine  o'clock  in 
the  morning;  and  we  were  glad  because  we  cal 
culated  that  we  could  catch  the  ten  o'clock  train  for 
Bar  Harbor.  But  that  calculation  was  far  astray. 
We  skirted  the  cleared  fields  and  entered  the  wood 
land  again.  The  river  flowed,  broad  and  leisurely, 

52 


A   HOLIDAY    IN   A   VACATION 

in  great  curves  half  a  mile  long  from  point  to  point. 
As  we  rounded  one  cape  after  another  we  said  to 
each  other,  "When  we  pass  the  next  turn  we  shall 
see  the  village.'*  But  that  inconsiderate  village 
seemed  to  flee  before  us.  Still  the  tall  trees  lined 
the  banks  in  placid  monotony.  Still  the  river  curved 
from  cape  to  cape,  each  one  like  all  the  others.  We 
paddled  hard  and  steadily.  Ten  o'clock  passed. 
Every  day  of  our  journey  we  had  lost  something — 
a  frying-pan,  a  hatchet,  a  paddle,  a  ring.  This  day 
was  no  exception.  We  had  lost  a  train.  Still  we 
pushed  along  against  the  cool  wind,  which  always 
headed  us,  whether  we  turned  north,  or  east,  or  south; 
wondering  whether  the  village  that  we  sought  was 
still  in  the  world,  wondering  whether  the  river  came 
out  anywhere,  wondering — till  at  last  we  saw,  across 
a  lake-like  expanse  of  water,  the  white  church  and 
the  clustering  houses  of  the  far-famed  Whitneyville. 
It  was  a  quaint  old  town,  which  had  seen  better 
days.  The  big  lumber-mill  that  had  once  kept  it 
busy  was  burned  down,  and  the  business  had  slipped 
away  to  the  prosperous  neighbouring  town  of  Ma- 
chias.  There  were  nice  old  houses  with  tall  pillars 

53 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

in  front  of  them,  now  falling  into  decay  and  slipping 
out  of  plumb.  There  were  shops  that  had  evidently 
been  closed  for  years,  with  not  even  a  sign  "To  Let" 
in  the  windows.  Our  dinner  was  cooked  for  us  in 
a  boarding-house,  by  a  brisk  young  lady  of  about 
fifteen  years,  whose  mother  had  gone  to  Machias 
for  a  day  in  the  gay  world.  With  one  exception 
that  pleasant  young  lady  was  the  only  thing  in 
Whitneyville  that  did  not  have  an  air  of  having  been 
left  behind. 

The    exception    was    the    establishment    of    Mr. 

Cornelius  D ,  whose  "General  Store"  beside  the 

bridge  was  still  open  for  business,  and  whose  big 
white  house  stood  under  the  elm-trees  at  the  corner 
of  the  road  opposite  the  church,  with  bright  windows, 
fresh-painted  walls,  and  plenty  of  flowers  blooming 
around  it.  He  was  walking  in  the  yard,  dressed  in  a 
black  broadcloth  frock-coat,  with  a  black  satin  necktie 
and  a  collar  with  pointed  ends, — an  old-fashioned 
Gladstonian  garb.  When  I  heard  him  speak  I 
knew  where  he  came  from.  It  was  the  rich  accent 
of  Killarney,  just  as  I  had  heard  it  on  the  Irish 
lakes  two  summers  ago.  But  sixty  years  had  passed 

54 


A   HOLIDAY   IN   A   VACATION 

since  the  young  Cornelius  had  left  the  shores  of  the 
River  Laune  and  come  to  dwell  by  the  Kowahshis- 
cook.  He  had  grown  up  with  the  place;  had  run  the 
lumber-mill  and  the  first  railroad  that  hauled  the 
lumber  from  the  mill  down  to  tide- water;  had  be 
come  the  owner  of  the  store  and  the  proprietor  of 
some  sixteen  miles  of  timber-land  along  the  river 
front;  had  built  the  chief  house  of  the  village  and 
given  his  children  a  capital  education;  and  there  he 
still  dwelt,  with  his  wife  from  Killarney,  and  with 
his  tall  sons  and  daughters  about  him,  contented  and 
happy,  and  not  at  all  disposed  to  question  the  benefi 
cent  order  of  the  universe.  We  had  plenty  of  good 
talk  that  afternoon  and  evening,  chiefly  about  the 
Old  Country,  and  I  had  to  rub  up  my  recollections 
of  Ross  Castle  and  Kenmare  House  and  all  the 
places  around  Lough  Leane,  in  order  to  match  the 
old  man's  memory.  He  was  interested  in  our  ex 
pedition,  too.  He  had  often  been  far  into  the  woods 
looking  after  his  lumber.  But  I  doubt  whether  he 
quite  understood  what  it  was  that  drew  the  boy  and 
me  on  our  idle  voyage  from  Nicatous  to  the  sea. 


55 


HIS     OTHER     ENGAGEMENT 


HIS     OTHER     ENGAGEMENT 

AMONG  the  annals  of  the  Petrine  Club,  which 
has  for  its  motto  the  wise  words  of  St.  Peter,  "I  go 
a-fishing,"  there  are  several  profitable  tales.  Next 
to  the  story  of  Beekman  De  Peyster's  fatal  success 
in  transforming  a  fairly  good  wife  into  a  ferocious 
angler,  probably  the  most  instructive  is  the  singular 
adventure  that  befell  Bolton  Chichester  in  taking  a 
brief  vacation  while  he  was  engaged  to  be  married. 
And  having  already  told  the  former  story  as  an  ex 
ample  of  the  vicissitudes  of  "Fisherman's  Luck,"  I 
now  propose  to  narrate  the  latter  as  a  striking  illus 
tration  of  what  may  happen  to  a  man  who  takes 
"a  day  off." 

Chichester  is  known  among  his  intimate  friends 
as  "Chinchin."  This  nominal  appendix  was  given 
to  him  not  in  allusion  to  his  habits  of  speech,  for  he 
is  rather  a  small  talker,  but  with  reference  to  the 
prominence  of  that  feature  of  his  countenance  which 
is  at  once  the  organ  of  utterance,  the  instrument  of 
mastication,  the  sign  of  firmness,  and  (at  least  in  the 

59 


HIS    OTHER    ENGAGEMENT 

Gibsonian  period  of  facial  architecture)  the  chief 
point  of  manly  beauty. 

Point  is  an  absurd  word  to  apply  to  Chichester's 
chin.  It  might  better  be  called  a  surface,  a  region, 
a  territory.  Smooth,  spacious,  square,  kept  always 
in  perfect  order  and  carried  with  a  what-do-I-care- 
for-that  air,  it  gives  him  a  most  distinguished  ap 
pearance,  and  makes  you  think,  when  you  meet  him, 
that  you  are  in  the  presence  of  a  favourite  matinee 
actor,  the  hero  of  a  modern  short-story,  or  a  man 
of  remarkable  decision  of  character. 

The  last,  of  course,  is  the  correct  interpretation  of 
the  sign.  Bolton  Chi  Chester  is  the  most  decided 
man  that  I  have  ever  known.  He  can  make  up  his 
mind  more  quickly,  on  a  greater  variety  of  subjects, 
and  adhere  to  each  determination  more  firmly,  than 
all  the  other  members  of  the  Petrine  Club  put  to 
gether.  For  this  reason  we  always  anticipated  for 
him  a  large  success  in  life,  and  some  even  predicted 
that  he  would  become  President  of  the  United  States 
— unless  he  made  up  his  mind  to  do  something  else 
on  the  way  to  the  White  House.  At  all  events,  we 
felt  sure,  he  would  get  what  he  wanted;  and  when 

GO 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

he  became  decidedly  attentive  to  Ethel  Asham  it 
was  taken  for  granted  that  he  would  woo,  win, 
and  marry  her  in  short  order. 

She  was  rather  a  difficult  person,  to  be  sure;  the 
eldest  daughter  of  that  cryptic  old  millionaire,  Wat 
son  Asham,  who  lived  in  New  York  and  resided,  for 
purposes  of  taxation,  at  West  Smithfield;  a  graduate 
of  Brainmore  College;  president  of  the  Social  Settle 
ment  of  Higher  Lighters;  a  frequent  contributor  in 
brief  fiction  to  the  Contrary  Magazine;  a  beauty  of 
the  tea-after-tennis  type;  the  best  dancer  in  St. 
Swithin's  Lenten  Circle,  and  the  most  romantic 
creature  that  ever  took  up  the  cause  of  Progress  with 
a  large  P.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  call  her  strong- 
minded,  because  the  adjective  seems  to  imply  some 
kind  of  a  limitation  in  her  strength.  She  was  even 
stronger  in  her  impulses  than  in  her  mind;  original 
in  every  direction;  in  fact,  originality  was  a  kind  of 
convention  with  her'.  It  was  wonderful  how  many 
things  she  accomplished;  but  then  she  never  lost 
any  time;  she  was  precise,  punctual,  inevitable  in 
her  sweet,  feminine,  self-possessed  way;  and  her 
varied  and  surprising  programme  went  through  on 

61 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

schedule  time,  while  she  cherished  in  her  heart  the 
dream  of  a  romance  in  the  style  of  "The  Prisoner  of 
Zenda." 

Naturally,  such  a  many-sided  young  woman  would 
be  difficult  to  please ;  and  a  number  of  eligible  young 
men  had  acquired  personal  knowledge  of  the  fact. 
But  the  difficulty  seemed  to  attract  Chichester.  He 
went  at  it  in  his  bold,  decided  manner,  with  his  chin 
forward;  and  he  conquered.  After  the  February 
campaign  no  one  was  surprised  to  hear,  in  March, 
that  the  engagement  of  Miss  Ethel  Asham  to  Mr. 
Bolton  Chichester  was  announced,  and  that  the 
wedding  would  occur  in  June. 

The  place  was  not  specified.  Conjectures  were 
hazarded  that  it  might  be  Dunfermline  Abbey,  the 
Castle  of  Chillon,  Bridal  Veil  Falls  in  the  Yosemite, 
the  Natural  Bridge  in  Virginia,  or  St.  George's, 
Hanover  Square.  Little  Pop  Wilson,  the  well-known 
dialect  novelist  of  the  southeastern  part  of  northern 
Kentucky,  suggested  that  there  was  something  to 
be  said  in  favor  of  the  Mammoth  Cave — "always 
cool,  you  know.  Artificial  lights,  pulpit  rock,  stalac 
tites — all  that  sort  of  thing!"  Even  this  was  felt  to 

62 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

be  within  the  bounds  of  possibility.  The  one  thing 
that  was  not  open  to  doubt  was  that  the  wedding 
would  certainly  be  celebrated  in  an  original  way  and 
a  romantic  place,  at  precisely  the  appointed  hour. 
If  anyone  had  foretold  that  it  would  be  broken  off, 
and  that  the  reason  given  would  be  "another  en 
gagement"  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Bolton  Chichester,  we 
should  have  laughed  in  the  face  of  such  a  ridiculous 
prophet  and  advised  him  to  take  something  to  cool 
his  brain. 

Yet  this  is  exactly  what  happened;  and  the  secret 
of  that  other  engagement  is  the  subject  of  this  brief, 
simple,  but  I  hope  not  unmoral  narrative. 

Chichester  had  been  with  the  Ashams  at  the 
residential  farm-house  in  West  Smithfield  during  the 
first  fortnight  of  April,  and  had  devoted  the  remainder 
of  that  showery  month  to  his  affairs  in  the  city,  diver 
sified  with  a  few  afternoons  of  trout-fishing  on  Long 
Island:  for  like  all  the  members  of  the  Petrine  Club 
he  was  a  sincere  angler.  It  was  during  this  period 
that  Ethel  took  up,  in  her  daily  correspondence  with 
him,  the  question  of  the  cruelty  of  angling.  She  was 
not  yet  quite  clear  in  her  mind  upon  the  subject,  but 


HIS    OTHER    ENGAGEMENT 

and  truly  poetic  and  fitting,  something  to  remember. 
She  had  a  plan.  The  wedding  should  be  in  June  ? 
Yes.  And  she  would  be  ready?  Yes.  And  all 
the  family,  at  least,  should  be  there  ?  Yes.  But  she 
asked  that  she  might  keep  the  secret  of  the  precise 
time  and  the  exact  place  as  long  as  possible;  it 
would  make  it  all  seem  so  much  more  spontaneous 
and  natural. 

The  situation  was  a  little  peculiar,  I  grant  you, 
and  somewhat  embarrassing  to  the  rest  of  the  family, 
including  Chichester.  But  he  took  it  like  a  man, 
and  backed  Ethel  up  with  the  utmost  decision,  just 
as  if  her  idea  was  what  he  had  always  thought  of  and 
determined  to  do.  What  was  his  chin  for,  if  he 
could  not  give  her  a  firm  support  in  a  thing  like  this  ? 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  not  care  in  the  least  where 
the  wedding  might  be.  A  man  never  does.  It  does  not 
seem  to  be  his  business .  Ethel's  paternal  parent,  how 
ever,  had  some  misgivings  which  must  be  satisfied. 

"Is  it  a  church?"  he  growled;  "none  of  your 
dusty,  shabby  little  Higher  Light  shrines,  eh?" 

"Yes,  it's  a  church,"  said  Ethel  solemnly,  "and  a 
very  old  and  beautiful  church." 


HIS    OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

"And  a  Christian  ceremony,"  he  insisted;  "par 
son,  robes,  prayer-book — regular  thing — no  side 
show  performance,  eh?" 

"Of  course,"  said  she,  "what  do  you  think?  Do 
you  suppose  that  just  because  I  see  things  in  an 
original  way,  I  don't  know  what's  proper?  I  like 
to  hear  the  Swami  Abikadanda  talk;  and  I  don't 
want  a  regular  cut-and-dried  wedding;  but  I'm  not 
going  to  take  any  risks  about  a  thing  like  that.  The 
clergyman  will  be  there,  and  you  will  give  me  away, 
and  Gladys  and  Victoria  will  be  the  bridesmaids, 
and  Arthur  will  be  the  best  man,  and  Howard  and 
Willis " 

"Well, well, "grunted  her  father,  with  his  chuckling 
laugh,  "it's  all  right,  I  suppose,  seeing  that  it's  your 
wedding.  Have  it  your  own  way  while  you  can." 
For  the  old  man  had  formed  his  idea  of  the  signifi 
cance  of  Chichester's  chin. 

So  it  was  settled  that  the  affair  should  remain  un 
settled  for  every  one  except  Ethel;  and  the  whole 
family  was  plunged  into  a  cheerful  state  of  evasion, 
prevarication,  and  downright  falsification;  and  Chi- 
chester  grinned  and  smoothed  the  left  side  of  his 

67 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

chin  with  his  forefinger  and  said,  "What  do  I  care 
for  that?  It's  all  right,  I  know,"  and  everybody 
predicted  that  Ethel  Asham  was  about  to  do  some 
thing  very  original. 

In  the  middle  of  June  she  marshalled  her  party 
for  a  little  Canadian  giro.  There  were  her  father 
and  mother;  and  the  inseparable  twins,  Gladys  and 
Victoria,  one  of  whom  always  laughed  when  the 
other  was  amused;  and  the  three  preternaturally 
important  brothers,  representing  the  triple-x  output 
of  Harvard,  Yale  and  Columbia;  and  Aunt  Euphe- 
mia  van  Benschoten,  who  had  inherited  the  van  Ben- 
schoten  nose,  a  block  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  a  pew  in 
St.  Mark's  church  (two  of  which  possessions  she  was 
entitled  to  devise  by  will);  and  Miss  Nancy  Bangs, 
Ethel's  most  intimate  friend;  and  the  Reverend 
Oriel  Bellingham  Jenks,  her  favourite  clergyman  of 
the  period;  and — oh,  yes!  of  course — there  was 
Bolton  Chichester. 

It  was  quite  a  large  party.  They  went  first  to 
Niagara,  which  Pop  Wilson  said  was  "premature, 
if  not  improper."  Then  they  went  down  through 
the  Thousand  Islands,  where  Ethel  pointed  out  the 

68 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

inhuman  and  cruel  expression  of  the  many  fisher 
men,  to  which  Chichester  answered,  "I  don't  know 
that  it's  cruel  to  catch  pickerel,  but  it's  certainly 
childish." 

Then  they  descended  the  ridiculous  rapids  of 
Lachine,  which  splashed  and  murmured  around 
them  like  a  very  mild  surf  at  Shelter  Island.  They 
spent  a  couple  of  days  in  looking  for  the  antiquities 
of  Montreal,  trying  to  find  the  romantic  atmosphere 
of  New  France  under  the  ancien  regime.  Then 
they  went  to  Quebec,  and  found  it. 

Dear,  delightful  old  Quebec,  with  her  gray  walls 
and  shining  tin  roofs;  her  precipitous,  headlong 
streets  and  sleepy  squares  and  esplanades;  her  nar 
row  alleys  and  peaceful  convents;  her  harmless  an 
tique  cannon  on  the  parapets  and  her  sweet-toned 
bells  in  the  spires;  her  towering  chateau  on  the 
heights  and  her  long,  low,  queer-smelling  ware 
houses  in  the  lower  town;  her  spick-and-span  ca- 
leches  and  her  dingy  trolley-cars;  her  sprinkling  of 
soldiers  and  sailors  with  Scotch  accent  and  Irish 
brogue  and  Cockney  twang,  on  a  background  of 
petite  bourgeoisie  speaking  the  quaintest  of  French 

69 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

dialects;  her  memories  of  an  adventurous,  glittering 
past  and  her  placid  contentment  with  the  tranquil 
grayness  of  the  present;  her  glorious  daylight  out 
look  over  the  vale  of  the  St.  Charles,  the  level  shore 
of  Montmorenci,  the  green  Isle  d'Orleans  dividing 
the  shining  reaches  of  the  broad  St.  Lawrence,  and 
the  blue  Laurentian  Mountains  rolling  far  to  the 
eastward — and  at  night,  the  dark  bulk  of  the  Citadel 
outlined  against  the  starry  blue,  the  trampling  of 
many  feet  up  and  down  the  wooden  pavement  of  the 
terrace,  the  chattering  and  the  laughter,  the  music 
of  the  military  band,  and  far  below,  the  huddled 
housetops,  the  silent  wharves,  the  lights  of  the  great 
warships  swinging  with  the  tide,  the  intermittent 
ferry-boats  plying  to  and  fro,  the  twinkling  lamps  of 
Levis  rising  along  the  dim  southern  shore  and  re 
flected  in  the  lapsing,  curling,  seaward-sliding  waves 
of  the  great  river!  What  city  of  the  New  World 
keeps  so  much  of  the  charm  of  the  Old  ? 

The  camp  which  Samuel  de  Champlain  made  in 
the  wilderness  three  hundred  years  ago,  has  become 
one  of  the  last  refuges  of  the  romantic  dream  and 
the  courtly  illusion,  still  haunted  by  the  shades  of 

70 


HIS    OTHER    ENGAGEMENT 

impecunious  young  noblemen  with  velvet  cloaks  and 
feathered  hats  and  rapiers  at  their  hips;  of  delicate, 
high-spirited  beauties  braving  the  snowy  wildwood 
in  their  silks  and  laces;  of  missionary  monks,  ton 
sured  and  rope-girdled,  pressing  with  lean  faces  and 
eager  eyes  to  plant  the  banner  of  the  Church  upon 
the  shores  of  the  West  and  win  the  fiery  crown  of 
martyrdom.  Other  figures  follow  them — gold-seek 
ers,  fur-traders,  empire-builders,  admirals  and  gen 
erals  of  France  and  England,  strugglers  for  dominion, 
soldiers  of  fortune,  makers  of  cunning  plots,  and 
dreamers  of  great  enterprises — and  round  them  all 
flows  the  confused  tide  of  war  and  love,  of  intrigue 
and  daring,  of  religious  devotion  and  imperial  plot. 
The  massive  walls  of  the  old  city  have  been  broken, 
the  rude  palaces  have  vanished  in  fire  or  sunken  in 
decay,  but  the  past  is  still  indomitable  on  Cape 
Diamond,  and  the  lovers  of  romance  can  lose  them 
selves  in  pleasant  reveries  among  the  winding  streets 
and  on  the  lofty,  sun-bathed  ramparts  of  Quebec. 

It  was  there,  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  Grand  Bat 
tery,  that  Ethel  disclosed  to  her  mother  and  Chi- 
chester  and  the  Reverend  Father  Bellingham  Jenks 

71 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

her    plan    for    the   wedding;    since,  indeed,  it  was 
hardly  possible  to  keep  it  a  secret  any  longer. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,  you  know,"  said  she, 
"we  are  going  to  take  the  Saguenay  boat  for  Tad- 
ousac.  Do  you  know  that  village  curving  along 
the  cliff  at  the  base  of  the  Mamelons;  and  the  half- 
circle  of  the  bay  opening  out  into  the  big  St.  Law 
rence,  full  of  sunshine  and  blue  water;  and  the 
steep,  shaggy  mountains  of  the  Saguenay  in  the 
background;  and  the  tiny  old  mission  chapel  of  the 
Jesuit  Fathers  where  the  same  bell  has  been  ringing 
for  nearly  three  hundred  years?  I  was  there  the 
summer  after  I  graduated;  and  I've  never  forgotten 
it.  It's  a  picture  and  a  dream.  That  is  where  I 
want  to  have  my  wedding.  I  don't  believe  that  any 
body  else  would  have  thought  of  it.  Perhaps  it's 
more  than  a  hundred  years  since  the  last  Indian 
wedding  was  held  in  that  little  deserted  chapel;  but 
it's  all  right,  kept  in  good  order,  just  as  a  relic  be 
side  the  big  new  church.  I  think" — turning  to  the 
clergyman — "that  it  will  be  perfectly  delightful  and 
original  to  have  you  marry  me  there,  at  high  noon, 
on  the  last  day  of  June." 

72 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

Well,  of  course,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  astonish 
ment  and  confusion  and  reluctance  when  this  extra 
ordinary  plan  came  out.  No  one  had  imagined  pre 
cisely  this  turn  in  Ethel's  originality.  Her  mother 
was  in  a  state  of  paralyzed  dismay  at  an  idea  so 
wildly  unconventional;  the  twins  and  her  brothers 
and  Miss  Nancy  Bangs  bubbled  over  with  practical 
difficulties  and  protests;  Father  Bellingham  Jenks 
was  doubtful  and  embarrassed.  "Would  it  be  pos 
sible — decorous — regular  ?  The  Roman  Branch,  you 
know,  has  not  yet  openly  acknowledged  the  Anglican 
position  in  The  Church.  Might  not  objections  arise 
— misunderstanding — refusal  of  permission  to  use 
the  chapel  ?  I  should  hesitate  very  much,  you  know ! " 

But  Ethel  carried  things  through  with  her  usual 
sweet,  sparkling  high-handedness;  and  Chichester 
supported  her  with  irresistible  determination,  as  if 
he  had  decided  on  exactly  this  thing  years  ago. 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  "splendid  idea — entirely 
novel — quite  correct — nothing  could  be  better.  Tele 
graph  for  one  wing  of  the  Tadousac  Hotel,  with 
drawing-rooms  and  private  dining-room.  Send  down 
plenty  of  flowers  and  cakes  and  wines  and  whatever 

73 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

we  need  from  here  by  boat  on  the  twenty-ninth. 
Get  a  letter  of  introduction  from  my  friend  Paradol, 
the  Minister  of  Fisheries  and  Lighthouses,  to  the 
archbishop  here — letter  from  him  to  the  cure  at  Tad- 
ousac — keys  of  the  chapel — permission  to  make 
drawings  and  photographs  of  the  interior  every 
morning  of  next  week.  I've  been  at  Tadousac  al 
most  every  summer  for  the  last  five  or  six  years,  on 
the  way  to  my  salmon-fishing  at  the  Ste.  Marjorie 
Club.  It's  all  prefectly  easy  and  it  shall  be  done." 

The  difficulties  seemed  to  vanish  before  his  master 
ful  air,  and  everybody  fell  into  line  with  sudden  en 
thusiasm.  Ethel  smiled  discreetly  and  moved  along 
her  pathway  of  inflexible  originality  with  gentle  tri 
umph.  The  voyage  down  the  river  was  delightful. 
The  arrangements  at  the  big  white  wooden  hotel  on 
the  curving  bay  were  rather  primitive  but  quite  com 
fortable;  and  three  of  the  five  days  which  were  to 
pass  before  the  ringing  of  the  antique  wedding-bell 
slipped  away  as  if  by  magic. 

On  the  fourth  day,  June  twenty-ninth,  Chichester 
having  been  assured  by  telegraph  that  all  the  things 
from  Quebec  had  been  safely  shipped  on  the  Ste. 

74 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

Irenee,  was  spending  a  morning  hour  with  Ethel  in 
the  pavilion  of  the  Government  Fish  Station  at  Anse 
a  I'Eau,  watching  the  great  herd  of  captive  salmon, 
circling  round  and  round  in  restless  imprisonment  in 
their  warm  shallow  pool.  The  splendid  fish  were 
growing  a  little  dull  and  languid  in  their  confined 
quarters,  freshened  only  by  the  inflowing  of  a  small 
brook,  and  exposed  to  the  full  glare  of  the  sun. 
Many  of  them  bore  the  scars  of  the  nets  in  which 
they  had  been  captured.  Others  had  red  wounds  on 
the  ends  of  their  noses  where  they  had  butted  against 
the  rocks  or  the  timbers  of  the  dam.  There  were 
some  hundreds  of  the  fish,  and  every  now  and  then 
a  huge  thirty-pounder  would  wallow  on  top  of  the 
water,  or  a  small,  lively,  one  would  spring  high  into 
the  air  and  fall  back  with  a  sounding  splash  on  his 
side.  Here  they  must  wait  through  the  summer,  the 
pool  becoming  daily  hotter,  more  crowded,  more  un 
comfortable,  until  the  time  came  when  the  hatchery 
men  would  strip  them  of  their  spawn.  To  an 
angler  the  sight  was  somewhat  disquieting,  though 
he  might  admit  the  strength  of  the  arguments  for  the 
artificial  propagation  of  fish.  But  to  Ethel  it  seemed 

75 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

a  pretty  spectacle  and  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
cruelty  of  angling. 

"Look  at  them,"  she  said,  "how  happy  they  are, 
and  how  safe!  No  fly-fishermen  to  stick  a  hook  in 
their  mouths  and  make  them  suffer.  How  can  you 
bear  to  do  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Chichester,  "if  it  comes  to  suffering, 
I  doubt  whether  the  fish  are  conscious  of  any  such 
thing,  as  we  understand  it.  But  even  if  they  are, 
they  suffer  twice  as  much,  and  a  thousand  times  as 
long,  shut  up  in  this  hot,  nasty  pool,  as  they  would  in 
being  caught  in  proper  style." 

"But  think  of  the  hook!" 

"Hurts  about  as  much  as  a  pin-prick." 

"But  think  of  the  fearful  struggle,  and  the  long, 
gasping  agony  on  the  shore" 

"There's  no  fear  in  the  struggle;  it's  just  a  trial  of 
strength  and  skill,  like  a  game  of  football.  A  fish 
doesn't  know  anything  about  death ;  so  he  has  no 
fear  of  it.  And  there  is  no  gasping  on  the  shore; 
nothing  but  a  quick  rap  on  the  head  with  a  stick, 
and  it's  all  over." 

"But  why  should  he  be  killed  at  all?" 
76 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

"Well,"  said  he,  smiling,  "there  are  reasons  of 
taste.  You  eat  salmon,  don't  you?" 

"Ye-e-es,"she  answered  a  little  doubtfully — then 
with  more  assurance,  "  but  remember  what  Wilbur 
Short  says  in  that  lovely  chapter  on  'Communion 
with  the  Catfish':  I  want  them  brought  to  the  table 
in  the  simplest  and  most  painless  way." 

"And  that  is  angling  with  the  fly,"  said  he,  still 
more  decidedly.  "The  fly  is  not  swallowed  like  a 
bait.  It  sticks  in  the  skin  of  the  lip  where  there  is 
least  feeling.  There  is  no  torture  in  the  play  of  a 
salmon.  It's  just  a  fair  fight  with  an  unknown  op 
ponent.  Compare  it  with  the  other  ways  of  bring 
ing  a  fish  to  the  table.  If  he's  caught  in  a  net  he 
hangs  there  for  hours,  slowly  strangled.  If  he's 
speared,  half  the  time  the  spear  slips  and  he  struggles 
off  badly  wounded;  and  if  the  spear  goes  through 
him,  he  is  flung  out  on  the  bank  to  bleed  to  death. 
Even  if  he  escapes,  he  is  sure  to  come  to  a  pitiful 
end  some  day — perish  by  starvation  when  he  gets 
too  old  to  catch  his  food — or  be  torn  to  pieces  by  a 
seal,  an  otter,  or  a  fish-hawk.  Fly-fishing  really 

offers  him " 

77 


HIS    OTHER    ENGAGEMENT 

"Never  mind  that/'  said  Ethel,  "what  does  it 
offer  you?" 

"A  gentleman's  sport,  I  suppose,"  he  answered 
rather  slowly.  "That  is,  a  fair  and  exciting  effort  to 
get  something  that  is  made  for  human  use,  in  a  way 
that  involves  some  hardship,  a  little  risk,  a  good  deal 
of  skill  and  patience  and  perseverance,  and  plenty  of 
out-of-door  life.  I  guess  it  must  be  an  inheritance 
of  the  old  days  when  people  lived  by  the  chase;  but, 
whatever  it  is,  almost  every  real  man  feels  a  certain 
kind  of  gratification  in  being  able  to  get  game  or 
fish  by  the  exertion  of  his  own  pluck  or  skill.  Some 
day  perhaps  this  will  all  be  changed,  and  we  shall  be 
contented  to  take  our  exercise  in  the  form  of  mas 
sage  or  croquet,  and  our  food  in  compressed  tablets. 
But  not  yet!" 

Ethel  shook  her  head  and  smiled  rather  sadly. 
" Bolton,"  she  said,  "you  discourage  me.  You  argue 
in  this  way  because  you  like  fishing." 

"I  do,"  he  answered,  promptly.  "And  so  far  as 
I  can  see,  that  is  the  principal  reason  why  your 
friends,  Aurora  W.  Chime  and  the  Reverend  Wilbur 
Short,  and  the  rest  of  them,  condemn  it.  They 

78 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

object  to  the  evident  pleasure  of  the  fisherman  more 
than  to  the  imaginary  suffering  of  the  fish." 

"Bolton!"  she  exclaimed  earnestly,  "that  is  not  a 
fair  thing  to  say.  They  are  truly  good  and  noble 
teachers.  They  live  on  a  lofty  plane  and  labour  for 
the  spreading  of  the  Higher  Light.  You  will  know 
them  when  we  are  married.  They  will  be  far  better 
company  for  you  than  the  thoughtless  fishermen  in 
your  clubs." 

Bolton  looked  a  little  glum.  But  he  behaved  like 
a  gentleman,  and  cheered  up.  "Well,  well,"  he  said, 
"of  course — you  know — your  friends,  my  friends! 
I'll  be  glad  to  meet  them,  and  hear  what  they  have 
to  say,  and  consider  it  all  very,  very  seriously.  I 
promised  you  that,  dearest,  you  remember.  But 
that  reminds  me — there  are  two  of  the  men  on  the 
Ste.  Marjorie  now,  at  the  club-house — Colonel  Lang 
and  the  Doctor — old  Harvey,  you  know — fine  old 
chap.  It's  only  twenty  miles  away.  Couldn't  we 
send  word  to  them  and  ask  them  to  come  down  for 
to-morrow?  I'm  so  proud  and  happy  about  it  all; 
I'd  like  to  have  them  here,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Why,  certainly,"  she  answered,  smiling  with 
79 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

manifest  pleasure,  "that  will  be  delightful.  We'll 
send  a  messenger  at  once  with  a  note  to  them.  But 
stop  a  moment — I  have  a  better  plan  than  that!  Why 
not  drive  over  yourself,  this  afternoon,  to  invite  them  ? 
You'll  be  glad  to  see  them  again ;  and  if  you  stay  here 
you'll  only  be  in  the  way  until  to-morrow,"  laughed 
she.  "Why  not  go  over  and  spend  the  night  at  the 
club-house  and  come  back  early  in  the  morning? 
That  will  be  quite  like  the  ancient  days — the  young 
adventurer  hurrying  out  of  the  forest  to  meet  his 
bride." 

Bolton  insisted  that  he  couldn't  think  of  it — didn't 
want  to  go — would  much  rather  stay  where  he  was. 
But  Ethel  was  captivated  with  the  novelty  of  the 
idea.  She  always  liked  her  own  plans.  Besides, 
she  really  wished  to  have  him  out  of  the  way  for  the 
rest  of  the  day  and  the  evening.  There  was  a  good 
deal  to  be  done — letters  to  be  written — a  long,  per 
sonal,  uplifting  talk  with  Nancy  Bangs,  and  with 
Gladys,  and  with  Victoria,  and  with  each  of  her 
brothers  separately — just  half-an-hour  of  soul-coun 
sel  for  each  one :  three  hours  altogether.  She  would 
see  them  in  regular  succession,  beginning  with  the 

80 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

youngest  brother,  and  winding  up  with  Nancy. 
Then  she  was  charmed  with  the  picture  of  Bolton 
coming  in,  post  haste,  in  the  morning,  as  if  he  had 
just  arrived  from  a  journey  across  the  great  northern 
wilderness.  So  she  carried  her  point,  and  when  he 
had  agreed  to  it,  he  found  that  he  rather  liked  the 
plan  too.  It  gave  him  something  to  do,  a  chance  to 
practise  his  habit  of  putting  things  through  with 
determination . 

He  sent  a  messenger  over  to  Sacre  Cceur  at  once, 
to  say  that  he  was  coming  and  that  a  canoe  should 
meet  him  at  the  landing-place  on  the  North-East 
Branch.  He  finished  up  all  the  arrangements  that 
remained  to  be  made  at  Tadousac  for  the  smooth 
running  of  to-morrow's  affair.  He  ordered  a  good 
horse  and  a  "quatre  roue"  to  be  ready  for  him  at 
five  o'clock;  and  having  parted  with  Ethel  in  the 
manner  appropriate  even  for  so  brief  a  separation, 
he  was  away  for  the  river  in  due  season. 

The  long  road  with  its  heavy  stretches  of  sand,  its 
incredibly  steep  clay  hills,  its  ruts  and  bumpers  over 
which  the  buckboard  rocked  like  a  boat  in  a  choppy 
sea,  and  its  succession  of  shadeless  habitant  houses 

81 


HIS    OTHER    ENGAGEMENT 

and  discouraged  farms,  had  never  seemed  to  him  so 
monotonous.  At  eight  o'clock,  when  it  was  growing 
dusk,  and  the  moon  rising,  he  reached  the  landing- 
place  on  the  Branch,  and  found  his  canoe,  with  his 
two  old  canoe-men,  P'tit  Louis,  and  Vieux  Louis, 
waiting  for  him.  With  their  warm,  homely  greeting 
his  spirits  began  to  revive;  and  the  swift  run  through 
foaming  rapids  and  eddying  pools,  along  the  four 
miles  of  the  Branch,  brought  him  into  a  state  of 
mind  that  was  thoroughly  cheerful,  not  to  say 
exhilarated.  There  was  Brackett's  Camp  on  the 
point  above  the  Forks;  and  there  was  the  veteran 
painter-angler  himself,  with  his  white  beard  and  his 
knickerbockers,  standing  on  the  shore  to  wave  a 
salutation  as  the  canoe  shot  by  the  point.  There 
was  the  main  river,  rushing  down  with  full  waters 
from  the  northwest,  and  roaring  past  the  island. 
There  was  the  club-house  among  the  white  birches 
and  the  balsams  on  the  opposite  bank,  with  the  two 
flags  fluttering  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  lights  twin 
kling  from  the  long,  low  veranda.  And  there  were 
half  a  dozen  canoe-men  with  a  lantern  at  the  landing- 
steps,  and  old  John  the  steward  in  his  white  apron 

82 


HIS    OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

rubbing  his  hands,  and  the  Colonel  and  the  Doctor 
blowing  the  conch  and  the  fish-horn  in  merry  wel 
come.  It  was  all  very  jolly,  and  Chichester  knew  at 
once  that  he  was  at  home. 

Dinner  at  nine  o'clock,  before  the  big  open  hearth, 
with  a  friendly  fire.  Much  chaffing  and  pleasant 
talk  about  the  arrangements  for  to-morrow.  A 
man  to  be  sent  off  at  daybreak  to  have  two  buck- 
boards  ready  at  the  landing  at  seven  for  the  drive  to 
Tadousac.  Then  a  reprehensible  quantity  of  to 
bacco  smoked  in  the  book-room,  and  the  tale  of  the 
season's  angling  told  from  the  beginning  with  many 
embellishments  and  divagations.  There  were  stories 
of  good  luck  and  bad;  vituperations  of  the  lumber 
men  for  leaving  tree-tops  and  broken  branches  in 
the  stream  to  get  caught  among  the  rocks  and  ruin 
the  fishing;  accounts  of  the  immense  number  of 
salmon  that  had  been  seen  leaping  in  the  estuary, 
waiting  to  come  up  the  river.  The  interest  centred 
in  the  story  of  a  huge  fish  that  had  taken  up  his 
transient  abode  in  the  pool  called  La  Four  eke.  The 
Colonel  had  pricked  and  lost  the  monster  two  days 
ago,  and  had  seen  him  jump  twice  yesterday.  The 

83 


HIS    OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

Colonel  was  greatly  excited  about  it,  and  vowed  it 
was  the  largest  salmon  seen  in  the  river  for  ten  years 
— "a  whale,  I  tell  you,  a  regular  marsouin!"  he 
cried,  waving  his  hands  in  the  air.  The  Doctor  was 
provokingly  sceptical  about  the  size  of  the  fish.  But 
both  agreed  that  there  was  one  thing  that  must  be 
done.  Chichester  must  try  a  few  casts  in  La  Fourche 
early  in  the  morning. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  puffing  slowly  at  his  pipe, 
"plenty  of  time  between  daylight  and  breakfast — 
good  hour  for  a  shy,  old  fish — we  give  up  our  rights 
to  you — the  pool  is  yours — see  what  you  can  do  with 
it — may  be  your  last  chance  to  try  your  luck — "  for 
somehow  a  rumour  in  regard  to  Miss  Asham's  views 
on  angling  had  leaked  out,  and  Chichester's  friends 
were  inclined  to  make  merry  about  it. 

He  rose  to  the  fly  decidedly.  "I  don't  know  about 
this  being  my  last  chance,"  said  he,  "but  I'll  take 
it,  any  way.  John,  give  me  a  tall  at  half -past  three 
sharp,  and  tell  the  two  Louis  to  be  ready  with  the 
canoe  and  the  rod  and  the  big  landing-net." 

The  little  wreaths  of  grey  mist  were  curling  up 
from  the  river,  and  the  fleecy  western  clouds  were 

84 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

tinged  with  wild  rose  behind  the  wooded  hills,  as 
Chichester  stepped  out  on  the  slippery  rocks  at  the 
head  of  the  pool,  loosened  his  line,  gave  a  couple  of 
pulls  to  his  reel  to  see  that  the  click  was  all  right, 
waved  his  slender  rod  in  the  air,  and  sent  his  fly  out 
across  the  swift  current.  Once  it  swung  around, 
dancing  over  the  water,  without  result.  The  second 
cast  carried  it  out  a  few  feet  further,  and  it  curved 
through  a  wider  arc,  but  still  without  result.  The 
third  cast  sent  it  a  little  further  still,  past  the  edge  of 
a  big  sunken  rock  in  the  current.  There  was  a  flash 
of  silver  in  the  amber  water,  a  great  splash  on  the 
surface,  a  broad  tail  waved  in  the  air  and  vanished — 
an  immense  salmon  had  risen  and  missed  the  fly. 

Chichester  reeled  in  his  line  and  sat  down.  His 
pulses  were  hammering,  and  his  chin  was  set  at  the 
angle  of  solid  determination.  "The  Colonel  was 
right,"  he  said,  "that's  an  enormous  fish,  and  he's 
mine!" 

He  waited  the  full  five  minutes,  according  to  an 
cient  rule,  before  making  the  next  cast.  There  was 
a  tiny  wren  singing  among  the  Balm-o'-Gilead  trees 
on  the  opposite  shore,  with  a  voice  that  rose  silverly 

85 


HIS    OTHER    ENGAGEMENT 

above  the  noise  of  the  rapids.  "  Cheer  up,  cheer  up,*' 
it  seemed  to  say,  "what's  the  matter  with  you? 
Don't  hurry,  don't  worry,  try  it  again — again — 
again!" 

But  the  next  cast  was  made  in  vain.  There  was 
no  response.  Chichester  changed  his  fly.  The  re 
sult  was  the  same.  He  tried  three  different  flies  in 
succession  without  effect.  Then  he  gave  the  top  of 
the  pool  a  rest,  and  fished  down  through  the  smooth 
water  at  the  lower  end,  hooking  and  losing  a  small 
fish.  Then  he  came  back  to  the  big  salmon  again, 
and  fished  a  small  Durham  Ranger  over  him  without 
success.  A  number  four  Critchley's  Fancy  produced 
no  better  result.  A  tiny  double  Silver  Grey  brought 
no  response.  Then  he  looked  through  his  fly-box 
in  despair,  and  picked  out  an  old  three-nought  Prince 
of  Orange — a  huge,  gaudy  affair  with  battered 
feathers,  which  he  had  used  two  years  before  in 
flood-water  on  the  Restigouche.  At  least  it  would 
astonish  the  salmon,  for  it  looked  like  a  last  season's 
picture-hat,  very  much  the  worse  for  wear.  It  lit 
on  the  ripples  with  a  splash,  and  floated  down  stream 
in  a  dishevelled  state  till  it  reached  the  edge  of  the 

86 


HIS    OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

sunken  rock.  Bang!  The  salmon  rose  to  that  in 
credible  fly  with  a  rush,  and  went  tearing  across  the 
pool. 

The  reel  shrieked  wildly  as  the  line  ran  out.  The 
rod  quivered  and  bent  almost  double.  Chichester 
had  the  butt  pressed  against  his  belt,  the  tip  well  up 
in  the  air,  the  reel-handle  free  from  any  possible 
touch  of  coat-flap  or  sleeve.  To  check  that  fierce 
rush  by  a  hundredth  part  of  a  second  meant  the  snap 
ping  of  the  delicate  casting-line,  or  the  smashing 
of  the  pliant  rod-tip.  He  knew,  as  the  salmon 
leaped  clear  of  the  water,  once,  twice,  three  times, 
that  he  was  in  for  the  fight  of  his  life;  and  he  dropped 
the  point  of  the  rod  quickly  at  each  leap  to  yield  to 
the  sudden  strain. 

The  play,  at  first,  was  fast  and  furious.  The  sal 
mon  started  up  the  stream,  breasting  the  rapids  at 
a  lively  rate,  and  taking  out  line  as  rapidly  as  the 
reel  could  run.  Chichester  followed  along  the  open 
shore,  holding  his  rod  high  with  both  hands,  stum 
bling  over  the  big  rocks,  wading  knee-deep  across  a 
side-channel  of  the  river,  but  keeping  his  feet  some 
how,  until  the  fish  paused  in  the  lower  part  of  the 

87 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

pool  called  La  Batture.  Here  there  was  a  chance  to 
reel  in  line,  and  the  men  poled  the  canoe  up  from 
below,  to  be  ready  for  the  next  turn  in  the  contest. 

The  salmon  was  now  sulking  at  the  bottom,  with 
his  head  down,  balanced  against  the  current,  and 
boring  steadily.  He  kept  this  up  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  then  made  a  rush  up  the  pool,  and  a  sidelong 
skittering  leap  on  the  surface.  Coming  back  with  a 
sudden  turn,  he  threw  a  somersault  in  the  air,  close 
to  the  opposite  shore,  sank  to  the  bottom  and  began 
jigging.  Jig,  jig,  jig,  from  side  to  side,  with  short, 
heavy  jerks,  he  worked  his  way  back  and  forth  twice 
the  length  of  the  pool.  Chichester  knew  it  was  dan 
gerous.  Any  one  of  these  sharp  blows  might  snap 
the  leader  or  the  hook.  But  he  couldn't  stop  it. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait,  with  tense  nerves, 
until  the  salmon  got  through  jigging. 

The  change  came  suddenly.  A  notion  to  go  down 
stream  struck  the  salmon  like  a  flash  of  lightning; 
without  a  moment's  warning  he  took  the  line  over  his 
shoulder  and  darted  into  the  rapids.  "II  va  de- 
scendrel  Vite,  vile!  Le  canot!  Au  large!"  shouted 
the  two  Louis;  but  Chichester  had  already  stepped 

88 


A  notion  to  go  down  stream  struck  the  salmon. 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

into  his  place  in  the  middle  of  the  canoe,  and  there 
were  still  forty  yards  of  white  line  left  on  the  reel, 
when  the  narrow  boat  dashed  away  in  pursuit  of  the 
fish,  impelled  by  flashing  paddles  and  flinging  the 
spray  to  right  and  left.  There  were  many  large 
rocks  half  hidden  in  the  wild  white  water  through 
which  they  were  plunging,  and  with  a  long  line  there 
was  danger  that  the  fish  would  take  a  turn  around 
one  of  them  and  break  away.  It  was  necessary  to 
go  faster  than  he  went,  in  order  to  retrieve  as  much 
line  as  possible.  But  paddle  as  fast  as  they  could 
the  fish  kept  ahead.  He  was  not  towing  the  boat, 
of  course;  for  only  an  ignoramus  imagines  that  a 
salmon  can  "tow"  a  boat,  when  the  casting-line  that 
holds  him  is  a  single  strand  of  gut  that  will  break 
under  a  strain  of  ten  pounds.  He  was  running  away, 
and  the  canoe  was  chasing  him  through  the  roaring 
torrent.  But  he  held  his  lead,  and  there  were  still 
eighty  or  ninety  yards  of  line  out  when  he  rushed 
down  the  last  plunge  into  La  Fourche. 

The  situation  was  this:  The  river  here  is  shaped 
like  a  big  Y.  The  salmon  went  down  the  inside 
edge  of  the  left-hand  fork.  The  canoe  followed  him 

89 


HIS    OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

down  the  outside  edge  of  the  same  fork.  When  he 
came  to  the  junction  it  was  natural  to  suppose  that 
he  would  follow  the  current  down  the  main  stem  of 
the  Y.  But  instead  of  that,  when  the  canoe  dropped 
into  the  comparative  stillness  of  the  pool,  the  line 
was  stretched,  taut  and  quivering,  across  the  foot  of 
the  left-hand  fork  and  straight  up  into  the  current  of 
the  right-hand  fork.  "He's  gone  up  the  other 
branch,"  shouted  Chichester,  above  the  roar  of  the 
stream,  "we  must  follow  him!  Push  across  the 
rapids!  Push  lively!"  So  the  men  seized  their 
setting-poles  and  shoved  as  fast  as  they  could  across 
the  foot  of  the  rapids,  while  the  rushing  torrent 
threatened  at  every  moment  to  come  in  over  the  side 
and  swamp  the  canoe.  There  was  a  tugging  and  a 
trembling  on  the  line,  and  it  led,  apparently,  up  the 
North-East  Branch,  past  Brackett's  Camp.  But 
when  the  canoe  reached  the  middle  of  the  rapids 
P'tit  Louis  uttered  an  exclamation,  leaned  over  the 
bow,  and  pulled  up  the  end  of  a  tree-top,  the  butt  of 
which  was  firmly  wedged  among  the  rocks.  Around 
the  slender  branches,  waving  and  quivering  in  the 
current  with  life-like  motion,  the  line  was  looped. 

90 


HIS    OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

The  lower  part  of  it  trailed  away  loosely  down  the 
stream  into  the  pool. 

Chichester  took  in  the  situation  in  a  flash  of 
grieved  insight.  "Well,"  he  said,  "that  is  posi 
tively  the  worst!  Good-by,  Mr.  Salmon.  Louis, 
pull  out  that-er,  er — that  branch!"  and  he  began 
slowly  to  reel  in  the  line.  But  old  Louis,  in  the  stern 
of  the  canoe,  had  taken  hold  of  the  slack  and  was 
pulling  it  in  hand  over  hand.  In  a  second  he  shouted 
"Arretez !  Arretez  I  M'sieu,  il  n'est  pas  parti ,  il  est  la!" 

It  was  a  most  extraordinary  affair.  The  spring  of 
the  flexible  branch  had  been  enough  to  keep  the  line 
from  breaking.  The  salmon,  resting  in  the  com 
paratively  still  water  of  the  pool,  had  remained  at  the 
end  of  the  slack,  and  the  hook,  by  some  fortunate 
chance,  held  firm.  It  took  but  a  moment  to  get  the 
line  taut  and  the  point  of  the  rod  up  again.  And 
then  the  battle  began  anew.  The  salmon  was  re 
freshed  by  his  fifteen  minutes  between  the  halves 
of  the  game.  No  centre  in  a  rush-line  ever  played 
harder  or  faster. 

He  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  attack  and  de 
fence  in  La  Fourche,  and  then  started  down  the  rapids 

91 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

again.  In  the  little  pot-hole  in  mid-river,  called  Pool 
a  Michel,  he  halted;  but  it  was  only  for  a  minute. 
Soon  he  was  flying  down  the  swift  water,  the  canoe 
after  him,  toward  the  fierce,  foaming  channel  which 
runs  between  the  island  and  the  eastern  bank  oppo 
site  the  club-house.  Chichester  could  see  the  Colonel 
and  the  Doctor  at  the  landing,  waving  and  beckon 
ing  to  him,  as  he  darted  along  with  the  current.  In 
tent  upon  carrying  his  fight  through  to  a  finish,  he 
gave  only  a  passing  glance  to  what  he  thought  was 
their  friendly  gesture  of  encouragement,  took  his 
right  hand  from  the  reel  for  a  second  to  wave  a 
greeting,  and  passed  on,  with  determination  written 
in  every  line  of  his  chin,  following  the  fish  toward 
the  sea. 

Through  the  clear  shallows  of  La  Pinette,  and  the 
rapids  below;  through  the  curling  depths  of  Pool  a 
Pierre,  and  the  rapids  below;  through  the  long, 
curving  reach  of  L'Hirondelle,  and  the  mad  rapids 
below;  so  the  battle  went,  and  it  was  fight,  fight, 
fight,  and  never  the  word  "give  up!"  At  last  they 
came  to  the  head  of  tide-water  and  the  lake-like  pool 
beside  the  old  quay.  Here  the  methods  of  the  fish 

92 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

changed.  There  was  no  more  leaping  in  the  air;  no 
more  violent  jigging;  no  more  swift  rushing  up  or 
down  stream;  but  instead,  there  was  just  an  ob 
stinate  adherence  to  the  deepest  water  in  the  pool,  a 
slow  and  steady  circling  round  and  round  in  some  in 
visible  eddy  below  the  surface.  From  this  he  could 
only  be  moved  by  pressure.  Now  was  the  time  to 
test  the  strength  of  the  rod  and  line.  The  fish  was 
lifted  a  few  feet  by  main  force,  and  the  line  reeled 
in  while  the  rod  was  lowered  again.  Then  there  was 
another  lift,  and  another  reeling  in;  and  so  the 
process  was  repeated  until  he  was  brought  close  to 
the  shore  in  comparatively  shallow  water.  Even 
yet  he  did  not  turn  over  on  his  back,  or  show  the 
white  fin;  but  it  was  evident  that  he  was  through 
fighting. 

Chichester  and  P'tit  Louis  stepped  out  on  the 
shore,  old  Louis  holding  the  canoe.  P'tit  Louis 
made  his  way  carefully  to  a  point  of  rock,  with  the 
wide-mouthed,  long-handled  net,  and  dipped  it 
quietly  down  into  the  water,  two  or  three  feet  deep. 
The  fish  was  guided  gently  in  toward  the  shore,  and 
allowed  to  drop  back  with  the  smooth  current  until 


HIS    OTHER    ENGAGEMENT 

the  net  was  around  him.  Then  it  was  swiftly  lifted; 
there  was  the  gleam  of  an  immense  mass  of  silver  in 
its  meshes,  an  instant  of  furious  struggle,  the  quick 
stroke  of  a  short,  heavy  baton;  and  the  great  salmon 
was  landed  and  despatched. 

The  hook  was  well  set  in  the  outside  of  his  jaw, 
just  underneath  his  chin;  no  wonder  he  played  so 
long,  with  his  mouth  shut !  Bring  the  spring-balance 
and  test  his  weight.  Forty-eight  pounds,  full  meas 
ure,  the  record  salmon  of  the  river — a  deep  thickset 
fish,  whose  gleaming  silver  sides  and  sharp  teeth 
proved  him  fresh-run  from  the  sea!  It  was  a  signal 
victory  for  an  angler  to  land  such  a  fish  under  such 
conditions,  and  Chichester  felt  that  fortune  had  been 
with  him. 

He  enjoyed  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  great  satisfac 
tion  as  the  men  poled  the  canoe  up-river  to  the  club 
house.  But  there  was  a  shadow  of  anxiety,  of  vague 
misgiving,  that  troubled  him;  and  he  urged  the  men 
to  make  haste.  At  the  landing  the  Colonel  and  the 
Doctor  were  waiting,  with  strange,  long,  inscrutable 
faces. 

"Did  you  get  him?"  they  said. 
94 


There  was  the  gleam  of  an  immense  mass  of  silver  in  its  meshes. 


HIS    OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

"I  did,"  he  answered;  "forty-eight  pounds.  Hold 
up  that  fish,  Louis!" 

"Magnificent,"  they  cried,  "a  great  fish!  You've 
done  it!  But,  man,  do  you  know  what  time  it  is? 
Five  minutes  to  ten  o'clock!" 

Nearly  ten,  and  twenty  miles  of  rough  river  and 
road  to  cover  before  high  noon.  Was  it  possible  ? 
In  a  second  it  flashed  upon  Chichester  what  he  had 
done,  what  a  fearful  situation  he  must  face.  "Come 
on,  you  fellows,"  he  cried,  stepping  back  into  the 
canoe.  "Now,  Louis,  shove  her  as  you  never  shoved 
before!  Ten  dollars  apiece  if  you  make  the  upper 
landing  in  half  an  hour." 

The  other  canoe  followed  immediately.  They 
found  the  two  buckboards  waiting,  and  scrambled 
in,  explaining  to  the  drivers  the  necessity  for  the 
utmost  haste.  Chichester's  horse  was  a  scrawny, 
speedy  little  beast,  called  Le  Coq  Noir,  the  champion 
trotter  of  the  region.  "  He,  Coq  !  "  shouted  the  driver, 
flourishing  his  whip,  at  the  top  of  the  first  long  hill; 
and  they  started  off  at  a  breakneck  pace.  They 
passed  through  the  village  of  Sacre  Coeur  a  mile  and 
a  half  ahead  of  the  other  wagon.  But  on  the  first 

95 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

steep  cote  beyond  the  village,  the  inevitable  hap 
pened.  The  blackboard  went  slithering  down  the 
slippery  slope  of  clay,  struck  a  log  bridge  at  the 
bottom  with  a  resounding  thump,  and  broke  an  axle 
clean  across.  The  wheel  flew  off,  and  the  buck- 
board  came  to  the  ground,  and  Chichester  and  the 
driver  tumbled  out.  The  Black  Cock  gave  a  couple 
of  leaps  and  then  stood  still,  looking  back  with  an 
expression  of  absolute  dismay. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  the  other 
buckboard,  which  arrived  in  ten  or  fifteen  minutes. 
"Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  lend  me  your  car 
riage?"  said  Chichester  elaborately.  "Oh,  don't 
talk!  Get  out  quick.  You  can  walk!"  They  changed 
horses  quickly,  and  Chichester  took  the  reins  and 
drove  on.  Quarter  past  eleven;  half  past;  quarter 
to  twelve — and  three  miles  yet  to  go !  It  was  barely 
possible  to  do  it.  And  perhaps  it  would  have  been 
done,  if  at  that  moment  the  good  little  Black  Cock 
had  not  stumbled  on  a  loose  stone,  gone  down  almost 
to  his  knees,  and  recovered  himself  with  a  violent 
v,  ench — lame !  Chichester  was  a  fair  runner  and  a 
d  walker.  But  he  knew  that  the  steep  sandy 
96 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

hills  which  lay  between  him  and  Tadousac  could 
never  be  covered  in  fifteen  minutes.  He  gave  the 
reins  to  the  driver,  leaned  back  in  the  seat,  and 
folded  his  arms. 

At  twenty-five  minutes  past  twelve  the  buckboard 
passed  slowly  down  the  main  street  of  Tadousac, 
bumped  deliberately  across  the  bridge,  and  drew  up 
before  the  hotel.  The  little  white  chapel  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road  was  shut,  deserted,  sleeping 
in  the  sunlight.  On  the  long  hotel  piazza  were  half 
a  dozen  groups  of  strangers,  summer  visitors,  evi 
dently  in  a  state  of  suppressed  curiosity  and  amuse 
ment.  They  fell  silent  as  the  disconsolate  vehicle 
came  to  a  halt,  and  Arthur  Asham,  the  Harvard 
brother,  in  irreproachable  morning  costume  and  per 
fect  form,  moved  forward  to  meet  it. 

"Well?"  said  Chichester,  as  he  stepped  out. 

"Well!"  answered  the  other;  and  they  went  a  few 
paces  together  on  the  lawn,  shaking  hands  politely  and 
looking  at  each  other  with  unspoken  interrogations. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  Chichester  said,  "but  it 
couldn't  be  helped.  A  chapter  of  accidents — I'll 
explain." 

97 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

"My  dear  fellow,"  answered  young  Asham,  "what 
good  will  that  do  ?  You  needn't  explain  to  me,  and 
you  can't  explain  to  Ethel.  She  is  in  her  most  lofty 
and  impossible  mood.  She'll  never  listen  to  you. 
I'm  awfully  sorry,  too,  but  I  fear  it's  all  over.  In 
fact,  she  has  driven  down  to  the  wharf  with  the  others 
to  wait  for  the  Quebec  "boat,  which  goes  at  one.  I 
am  staying  to  get  the  luggage  together  and  bring  it 
on  to-morrow.  She  gave  me  this  note  for  you.  Will 
you  read  it?" 

Asham  politely  turned  away,  and  Chichester  read : 

MY  DEAR  MR.  CHICHESTER: 

Fortunate  indeed  is  the  disillusion  which  does  not  come 
too  late.  But  the  bridegroom  who  comes  too  late  is  known 
in  time. 

You  may  be  sure  that  I  have  no  resentment  at  what  you 
have  done;  I  have  risen  to  those  heights  where  anger  is 
unknown.  But  I  now  see  clearly  what  I  have  long  felt 
dimly — that  your  soul  does  not  keep  time  with  the  music 
to  which  my  life  is  set.  I  do  not  know  what  other  engage 
ment  kept  you  away.  I  do  not  ask  to  know.  I  know  only 
that  ours  is  at  an  end,  and  you  are  at  liberty  to  return  to 
your  fishing.  That  you  will  succeed  in  it  is  the  expecta 
tion  of 

Your  well-wisher,  E.  ASHAM. 

98 


HIS   OTHER   ENGAGEMENT 

Chichester's  chin  dropped  a  little  as  he  read.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  looked  undecided.  Then 
he  folded  the  note  carefully,  put  it  in  the  breast 
pocket  of  his  coat,  and  turned  to  his  companion. 

"You  will  be  going  up  in  to-morrow's  boat,  I 
suppose.  Shall  we  go  together  ?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Arthur  Asham,  "really, 
you  know — I  should  be  delighted.  But  do  you  think 
it  would  be  quite  the  thing?" 


99 


BOOKS  THAT  I  LOVED  AS  A  BOY 


BOOKS  THAT  I  LOVED  AS  A  BOY 

"IT  is  one  thing,"  said  my  Uncle  Peter,  "to  be 
perfectly  honest.  But  it  is  quite  another  thing 
to  tell  the  truth." 

"Are  you  honest  in  that  remark,"  I  asked,  "or 
are  you  merely  telling  the  truth?" 

"Both,"  he  answered,  with  twinkling  eyes,  "for 
that  is  an  abstract  remark,  in  which  species  of  dis 
course  truth-telling  is  comparatively  easy.  Abstract 
remarks  are  a  great  relief  to  the  lazy  honest  man. 
They  spare  him  the  trouble  of  meticulous  investiga 
tion  of  unimportant  facts.  But  a  concrete  remark, 
touching  upon  a  number  of  small  details,  is  full  of 
traps  for  the  truth-teller." 

"You  agree,  then,"  said  I,  "with  what  the  Psalm 
ist  said  in  his  haste:  'All  men  are  liars' ?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  replied,  laying  down  the 
volume  which  he  was  apparently  reading  when  he 
interrupted  himself.  "I  have  leisure  enough  to  per 
ceive  at  once  the  falsity  of  that  observation  which 
the  honest  Psalmist  recorded  for  our  amusement. 
103 


BOOKS  THAT  I  LOVED  AS  A  BOY 

The  real  liars,  conscious,  malicious,  wilful  falsifiers, 
must  always  be  a  minority  in  the  world,  because 
their  habits  tend  to  bring  them  to  an  early  grave  or 
a  reformatory.  It  is  the  people  who  want  to  tell 
the  truth,  and  try  to,  but  do  not  quite  succeed,  who 
are  in  the  majority.  Just  look  at  this  virtuous  little 
volume  which  I  was  reading  when  you  broke  in  upon 
me.  It  is  called  *  Books  that  Have  Influenced  Me.' 
A  number  of  authors,  politicians,  preachers,  doctors, 
and  rich  men  profess  to  give  an  account  of  the 
youthful  reading  which  has  been  most  powerful  in 
the  development  of  their  manly  minds  and  char 
acters.  To  judge  from  what  they  have  written  here 
you  would  suppose  that  these  men  were  as  mature 
and  discriminating  at  sixteen  as  they  are  at  sixty. 
They  tell  of  great  books,  serious  books,  famous 
books.  But  they  say  little  or  nothing  of  the  small, 
amusing  books,  the  books  full  of  fighting  and  ad 
venture,  the  books  of  good  stuff  poorly  written,  in 
which  every  honest  boy,  at  some  time  in  his  life, 
finds  what  he  wants.  They  are  silent,  too,  about 
the  books  which  as  a  matter  of  fact  had  a  tremendous 
influence  on  them — the  plain,  dull  school-books. 
104 


BOOKSTHATILOVEDASABOY 

For  my  part,  if  you  asked  me  what  books  had  in 
fluenced  me,  I  should  not  be  telling  the  truth  if  my 
answer  left  out  Webster's  Spelling-Book  and  Green- 
leaf's  Arithmetic,  though  I  did  not  adore  them  ex 
travagantly." 

"That's  just  the  point,  Uncle  Peter,"  said  I, 
"these  distinguished  men  were  really  trying  to  tell 
you  about  the  books  that  delighted  and  inspired 
their  youth,  the  books  that  they  loved  as  boys." 

"Well,"  said  my  Uncle  Peter,  "if  it  comes  to 
love,  and  reminiscences  of  loving,  that  is  precisely 
the  region  in  which  the  exact  truth  is  least  frequently 
told.  Maturity  casts  its  prim  and  clear-cut  shadow 
backwards  upon  the  vague  and  glittering  landscape 
of  youth.  Whether  he  speaks  of  books  or  of  girls, 
the  aged  reminiscent  attributes  to  himself  a  delicacy 
of  taste,  a  singleness  and  constancy  of  affection,  and 
a  romantic  fervour  of  devotion,  which  he  might  have 
had,  but  probably  did  not.  He  is  not  in  the  least 
to  blame  for  drawing  his  fancy-picture  of  a  young 
gentleman.  He  cannot  help  it.  It  is  his  involun 
tary  tribute  to  the  ideal.  Youth  dreams  in  the 
future  tense;  age,  in  the  past  participle. 
105 


BOOKSTHATILOVEDASABOY 

"  There  is .  no  kind  of  fiction  more  amiable  and 
engaging  than  the  droll  legends  of  infancy  and  pious 
recollections  of  boyhood.  Do  you  suppose  that 
Wordsworth  has  given  us  a  complete  portrait  of  the 
boy  that  he  was,  in  'The  Prelude'  ?  He  says  not  a 
word  about  the  picture  of  his  grandmother  that  he 
broke  with  his  whip  because  the  other  children  gave 
him  a  'dare,'  nor  about  the  day  when  he  went  up 
into  the  attic  with  an  old  fencing-foil  to  commit  sui 
cide,  nor  about  the  girl  with  whom  he  fell  in  love 
while  he  was  in  France.  Do  you  suppose  that 
Stevenson's  'Memories  and  Portraits'  represent  the 
youthful  R.  L.  S.  with  photographic  accuracy  and 
with  all  his  frills  ?  Not  at  all.  Stevenson's  essays 
are  charming;  and  Wordsworth's  poem  is  beautiful, 
— in  streaks  it  is  as  fine  as  anything  that  he  ever 
wrote:  but  both  of  these  works  belong  to  literature 
because  they  are  packed  full  of  omissions, — which 
Stevenson  himself  called  'a  kind  of  negative  exag 
geration.'  No,  my  dear  boy,  old  Goethe  found  the 
right  title  for  a  book  of  reminiscences  when  he  wrote 
'Wahrheit  und  Dicktung.'  Truth  and  poetry, — that 
is  what  it  is  bound  to  be.  I  don't  know  whether 
106 


BOOKS  THAT  I  LOVED  AS  A  BOY 

Goethe  was  as  honest  a  man  as  Wordsworth  and 
Stevenson,  but  I  reckon  he  told  about  as  much  of 
the  truth.  Autobiography  is  usually  a  man's  view 
of  what  his  biography  ought  to  be." 

"This  is  rather  a  disquieting  thought,  my  Uncle 
Peter,"  said  I,  "for  it  seems  to  leave  us  all  adrift 
on  a  sea  of  illusions." 

"Not  if  you  look  at  it  in  the  right  way,"  he  an 
swered,  placidly.  "We  can  always  get  at  a  few 
more  facts  than  the  man  himself  gives  us,  from 
letters  and  from  the  dispassionate  recollections  of 
his  friends.  Besides,  a  man's  view  of  what  his  life 
ought  to  have  been  is  almost  as  interesting,  and 
quite  as  instructive,  as  a  mere  chronicle  of  what  it 
actually  was.  The  truth  is,  there  are  two  kinds  of 
truth:  one  kind  is " 

Crash!  went  the  fire-irons,  tumbling  in  brazen 
confusion  on  the  red-brick  hearth.  When  my  Uncle 
Peter  has  mounted  his  favourite  metaphysical  the 
ory,  I  know  that  nothing  can  make  him  dismount 
but  physical  violence.  I  apologized  for  the  poker 
and  the  shovel  and  the  tongs  (practising  a  Steven- 
sonian  omission  in  regard  to  my  own  share  in  the 
107 


BOOKS  THAT  I  LOVED  AS  A  BOY 

catastrophe),  arranged  the  offending  members  in 
their  proper  station  on  the  left  of  the  fire-place,  and 
took  the  bellows  to  encourage  the  dull  fire  into  a 
more  concrete  flame. 

"I  know  enough  about  the  different  kinds  of 
truth,"  said  I,  working  away  at  the  bellows.  "  Haven't 
I  just  been  reading  Professor  Jacobus  on  *  Vari 
eties  of  Religious  Experience'?  What  I  want 
now  is  something  concrete;  and  I  wish  you  would 
try  to  give  it  to  me,  whatever  perils  it  may  in 
volve.  Tell  me  something  about  the  books  that 
you  loved  as  a  boy.  Never  mind  your  veracity, 
Uncle  Peter,  just  be  honest,  that  will  be  enough." 

"  My  veracity ! "  he  grunted,  "  Humph !  Impudent 
academic  mocker,  university  life  has  destroyed  your 
last  rag  of  reverence.  You  have  become  a  mere 
pivot  for  turning  another  fellow's  remarks  against 
himself.  However,  if  you  will  just  allow  me  to  talk, 
and  promise  to  let  those  fire-irons  alone,  I  will  tell 
you  about  some  of  the  literary  loves  of  my  boyhood." 

"I  promise  not  to  stir  hand  or  tongue  or  foot," 
said  I,  "unless  I  see  you  sliding  towards  a  meta 
physical  precipice." 

108 


BOOKS  THAT  I  LOVED  AS  A  BOY 

"Very  well,"  said  my  Uncle  Peter,  "I  will  do  my 
best  to  give  you  the  facts.  And  the  first  is  this: 
there  never  was  a  day  in  my  boyhood  when  I  would 
not  rather  go  a-fishing  than  read  the  best  book  in 
the  world.  If  the  choice  had  been  given  me,  I 
never  would  have  hesitated  between  climbing  a 
mountain  or  paddling  a  canoe,  and  spending  hours 
in  a  library.  I  would  have  liked  also  to  hunt  grizzly 
bears  and  to  fight  Indians, — but  these  were  purely 
Platonic  passions,  detached  from  physical  experi 
ence.  I  never  realized  them  in  hot  blood. 

"My  native  preferences  were  trimmed  and  pruned 
by  the  fortune  that  fixed  my  abode,  during  nine 
months  of  every  year,  in  the  city  of  Brooklyn,  where 
there  were  no  mountains  to  climb,  no  rivers  to  canoe, 
and  no  bears  to  hunt.  The  winter  of  my  discon 
tent,  however,  was  somewhat  cheered  by  games  of 
football  and  baseball  in  the  vacant  lots  on  the 
heights  above  Wall  Street  Ferry,  and  by  fierce  bat 
tles  and  single  combats  with  the  tribes  of  'Micks' 
who  inhabited  the  regions  of  Furman  Street  and 
Atlantic  Avenue.  There  was  no  High  Court  of 
Arbitration  to  suggest  a  peaceful  solution  of  the 
109 


BOOKS  THAT  I  LOVED  AS  A  BOY 

difficulties  out  of  which  these  conflicts  arose.  In 
fact,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  there  was  seldom  a 
casus  belli  which  could  be  defined  and  discussed. 
The  warfare  simply  effervesced,  like  gas  from  a 
mineral  spring.  It  was  chronic,  geographical,  tem 
peramental,  and  its  everlasting  continuance  was 
suggested  in  the  threat  with  which  the  combatants 
usually  parted:  'wait  till  we  ketch  you  alone,  down 
our  street!' 

"There  was  also  a  school  which  claimed  some 
hours  of  my  attention  on  five  days  of  the  week.  On 
holidays  my  father  used  to  take  me  on  the  most 
delightful  fishing  excursions  to  the  then  unpolluted 
waters  of  Coney  Island  Creek  and  Sheepshead  Bay; 
and  on  Monday  afternoons  in  midwinter  it  was  a 
regular  thing  that  I  should  go  with  him  to  New 
York  to  ramble  among  the  old  book-shops  in  Nassau 
Street  and  eat  oysters  at  Dorlon's  stall,  with  wooden 
tables  and  sawdust-sprinkled  floor,  in  Fulton  Market. 
Say  what  you  please  about  the  friendship  of  books: 
it  was  worth  a  thousand  times  more  to  have  the 
friendship  of  such  a  father. 

"But  there  was  still  a  good  deal  of  unoccupied 
110 


BOOKSTHATILOVEDASABOY 

time  on  my  hands  between  the  first  of  October  and 
the  first  of  May,  and  having  learned  to  read  (in 
the  old-fashioned  way,  by  wrestling  with  the  alpha 
bet  and  plain  spelling),  at  the  age  of  about  five  years, 
I  was  willing  enough  to  give  some  of  my  juvenile 
leisure  to  books  and  try  to  find  out  what  they  had 
to  say  about  various  things  which  interested  me.  I 
did  not  go  to  school  until  my  tenth  year,  and  so 
there  was  quite  a  long  period  left  free  for  general 
reading,  beginning  with  the  delightful  old-fashioned 
books  of  fairy  tales  without  a  moral,  and  closing 
with  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  "Don  Quixote,"  and 
Plutarch's  "Lives  of  Illustrious  Men."  In  the  last 
two  books  I  took  a  real  and  vivid  interest,  though  I 
now  suspect  that  it  was  strictly  limited  in  range. 
They  seemed  to  open  a  new  world  to  me,  the  world 
of  the  past,  in  which  I  could  see  men  moving  about 
and  doing  the  most  remarkable  things.  Both  of 
these  books  appeared  to  me  equally  historical;  I 
neither  doubted  the  truth  of  their  narratives  nor 
attended  to  the  philosophical  reflections  with  which 
they  were  padded.  The  meaning  of  the  long  words 
I  guessed  at. 

Ill 


BOOK3THATILOVEDASABOY 

"My  taste  at  this  time  was  most  indiscriminate. 
I  could  find  some  kind  of  enjoyment  in  almost  any 
thing  that  called  itself  a  book — even  a  Sunday-school 
story,  or  a  child's  history  of  the  world — provided 
only  it  gave  something  concrete  for  imagination  to 
work  upon.  The  mere  process  of  reading,  with  the 
play  of  fancy  that  it  quickened,  became  an  agree 
able  pastime.  I  got  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  and 
possibly  some  good,  out  of  Bunyan's  'Holy  War* 
(which  I  perversely  preferred  to  'The  Pilgrim's 
Progress')  acd  Livingstone's  'Missionary  Journals 
and  Researches/  and  a  book  about  the  Scotch 
Covenanters.  These  volumes  shortened  many  a 
Sunday.  I  also  liked  parts  of  'The  Compleat  An 
gler,'  but  the  best  parts  I  skipped. 

"With  the  coming  of  school  days  the  time  for 
reading  was  reduced,  and  it  became  necessary  to 
make  a  choice  among  books.  The  natural  instincts 
of  youth  asserted  themselves,  and  I  became  a  de 
votee  of  Captain  Mayne  Reid  and  R.  M.  Ballan- 
tyne,  whose  simple  narratives  of  wild  adventure 
offered  a  refuge  from  the  monotony  of  academic  life. 
It  gave  me  no  concern  that  the  names  of  these  au- 


BOOKS  THAT  I  LOVED  AS  A  BOY 

thors  were  not  included  in  the  encyclopaedias  of  lit 
erature  nor  commented  upon  in  the  critical  reviews. 
I  had  no  use  for  the  encyclopaedias  or  reviews;  but 
' The  Young  Voyageurs,'  'The  White  Chief,'  'Osce- 
ola  the  Seminole,'  'The  Bush  Boys/  'The  Coral 
Island,'  'Red  Eric,'  'Ungava,'  and  'The  Gorilla 
Hunters'  gave  me  unaffected  delight. 

"After  about  two  years  of  this  innocent  dissipation 
I  began  to  feel  the  desire  for  a  better  life,  and  turned, 
by  my  father's  advice,  to  Sir  Walter  Scott.  'Ivan- 
hoe'  and  'The  Pirate'  pleased  me  immensely;  'Wa- 
verley'  and  'The  Heart  of  Midlothian'  I  accepted 
with  qualifications;  but  the  two  of  Scott's  novels 
that  gave  me  the  most  pleasure,  I  regret  to  state, 
were  'Quentin  Durward'  and  'Count  Robert  of 
Paris.'  Then  Dickens  claimed  me,  and  I  yielded  to 
the  spell  of  'Oliver  Twist,'  'David  Copperfield,'  and 
'Pickwick  Papers.' 

"By  this  time  it  had  begun  to  dawn  upon  me  that 
there  was  a  difference  among  books,  not  only  in  re 
gard  to  the  things  told,  but  also  in  regard  to  the  way 
of  the  telling.  Unconsciously  I  became  sensitive  to 
the  magic  of  style,  and,  wandering  freely  through  the 
113 


BOOKSTHATILOVEDASABOY 

library,  was  drawn  to  the  writers  whose  manner  and 
accent  had  a  charm  for  me.  Emerson  and  Carlyle 
I  liked  no  better  than  I  liked  caviar;  but  Lamb's 
Essays  and  Irving's  Sketches  were  fascinating.  For 
histories  of  literature,  thank  Heaven,  I  never  had  any 
appetite.  I  preferred  real  books  to  books  about 
books.  My  only  idea  of  literature  was  a  vivid  re 
flection  of  life  in  the  world  of  fancy  or  in  the  world 
of  fact. 

"In  poetry,  Milton's  'Comus'  was  about  the  first 
thing  that  took  hold  of  me;  I  cannot  tell  why — per 
haps  it  was  because  I  liked  my  father's  reading  of  it. 
But  even  he  could  not  persuade  me  to  anything 
more  than  a  dim  respect  for  ' Paradise  Lost.'  Some 
of  Shakespeare's  plays  entranced  me;  particularly 
'The  Tempest,'  'Romeo  and  Juliet,'  and  'As  You 
Like  It;'  but  there  were  others  which  made  no  real 
impression  upon  my  wayward  mind.  Dryden  and 
Pope  and  Cowper  I  tried  in  vain  to  appreciate;  the 
best  that  I  could  attain  to  was  a  respectful  admira 
tion.  'The  Lady  of  the  Lake'  and  'The  Ancient 
Mariner,'  on  the  contrary,  were  read  without  an 
effort  and  with  sincere  joy.  The  first  book  of 

114 


BOOKSTHATILOVEDASABOY 

poetry  that  I  bought  for  myself  was  Tennyson's 
*  Enoch  Arden,'  and  I  never  regretted  the  purchase, 
for  it  led  me  on,  somehow  or  other,  into  the  poetic 
studies  and  the  real  intimacy  with  books  which 
enabled  me  to  go  through  college  without  serious 
damage. 

"I  cannot  remember  just  when  I  first  read  *  Henry 
Esmond;'  perhaps  it  was  about  the  beginning  of 
sophomore  year.  But,  at  all  events,  it  was  then  that 
I  ceased  to  love  books  as  a  boy  and  began  to  love 
them  as  a  man." 

"And  do  you  still  love  '  Henry  Esmond'  ? "  I  asked. 

"I  do  indeed,"  said  my  Uncle  Peter,  "and  I  call 
it  the  greatest  of  English  novels.  But  very  close  to 
it  I  put  'Lorna  Doone,'  and  /The  Heart  of  Midlo 
thian,'  and  'The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,'  and 
' The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,'  and  'John  In- 
glesant.' " 

"If  you  love  'John  Inglesant,' "  said  I,  "you 
must  be  getting  old,  Uncle  Peter." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  answered,  comfortably  lighting  his 
pipe  with  a  live  coal  of  wood  from  the  hearth,  "  I 
am  only  growing  up." 

115 


AMONG  THE  QUANTOCK  HILLS 


AMONG  THE  QUANTOCK  HILLS 

MY  little  Dorothea  was  the  only  one  of  the  merry 
crowd  who  cared  to  turn  aside  with  me  from  the 
beaten  tourist-track,  and  give  up  the  sight  of  an 
other  English  cathedral  for  the  sake  of  a  quiet  day 
among  the  Quantock  H411s.  Was  it  the  literary  as 
sociation  of  that  little  corner  of  Somersetshire  with 
the  names  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  that  at 
tracted  her,  I  wonder  ?  Or  was  it  the  promise  that 
we  would  hire  a  dog-cart,  if  one  could  be  found,  and 
that  she  should  be  the  driver  all  through  the  summer 
day?  I  confess  my  incompetence  to  decide  the 
question.  When  one  is  fifteen  years  old,  a  live 
horse  may  be  as  interesting  as  two  dead  poets.  Not 
for  the  world  would  I  put  Dorothea  to  the  embar 
rassment  of  declaring  which  was  first  in  her  mind. 

When  she  and  I  got  out  of  the  railway  carriage, 
in  the  early  morning,  at  the  humble  station  of  Wat- 
chet,  (barely  mentioned  in  the  guide-book,)  our 
travelling  companions  jeered  gently  at  our  enter 
prise.  As  the  train  rumbled  away  from  the  plat- 
119 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

form,  they  stuck  their  heads  out  of  the  window  and 
cried,  "Where  are  you  going?  And  how  are  you 
going  to  get  there?"  Upon  my -honour,  I  did  not 
know.  That  was  just  the  fun  of  it. 

But  there  was  an  inn  at  Watchet,  though  I  doubt 
whether  it  had  ever  entertained  tourists.  The 
friendly  and  surprised  landlady  thought  that  she 
could  get  us  a  dog-cart  to  drive  across  the  country; 
but  it  would  take  about  an  hour  to  make  ready.  So 
we  strolled  about  the  town,  and  saw  the  sights  of 
Watchet. 

They  were  few  and  simple;  yet  something,  (per 
haps  the  generous  sunshine  of  the  July  day,  or  per 
haps  an  inward  glow  of  contentment  in  our  hearts,) 
made  them  bright  and  memorable.  There  were  the 
quaint,  narrow  streets,  with  their  tiny  shops  and  low 
stone  houses.  There  was  the  coast-guard  station, 
with  its  trim  garden,  perched  on  a  terrace  above  the 
sea.  There  was  the  life-boat  house,  with  its  doors 
wide  open,  and  the  great  boat,  spick  and  span  in 
the  glory  of  new  paint,  standing  ready  on  its  rollers, 
and  the  record  of  splendid  rescues  in  past  years  in 
scribed  upon  the  walls.  There  was  the  circular 

120 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

basin-harbour,  with  the  workmen  slowly  repairing 
the  breakwater,  and  a  couple  of  ancient  looking 
schooners  reposing  on  their  sides  in  the  mud  at  low 
tide.  And  there,  back  on  the  hill,  looking  down 
over  the  town  and  far  away  across  the  yellow  waters 
of  the  Bristol  Channel,  was  the  high  tower  of  St. 
Decuman's  Church. 

"It  was  from  this  tiny  harbour,"  said  I  to  Doro 
thea,  "that  a  great  friend  of  ours,  the  Ancient  Mari 
ner,  set  sail  on  a  wonderful  voyage.  Do  you  re 
member  ? 

*  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbour  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 
Below  the  lighthouse  top.' 

That  was  the  kirk  to  which  he  looked  back  as  he 
sailed  away  to  an  unknown  country." 

"But,  .father,"  said  Dorothea,  "the  Ancient 
Mariner  was  not  a  real  person.  He  was  only  a 
character!" 

"Are  you  quite  sure,"  said  I,  "that  a  character 
isn't  a  real  person  ?  At  all  events,  it  was  here  that 
Coleridge,  walking  from  Nether  Stowey  to  Dulver- 
121 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

ton,  saw  the  old  sailor-man.  And  since  Coleridge 
saw  him,  I  reckon  he  lived,  and  still  lives.  Are  we 
ever  going  to  forget  what  he  has  told  us  ? 

*  He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all.' " 

Just  then  a  most  enchanting  little  boy  and  his 
sister,  not  more  than  five  years  old,  came  sauntering 
down  the  gray  street,  hand  in  hand.  They  were  on 
their  way  to  school,  at  least  an  hour  late,  round  and 
rosy,  careless  and  merry,  manifest  owners  of  the 
universe.  We  stopped  them:  they  were  dismayed, 
but  resolute.  We  gave  each  of  them  a  penny;  they 
radiated  wonder  and  joy.  Too  happy  for  walking, 
they  skipped  and  toddled  on  their  way,  telling  every 
one  they  met,  children  and  grown-up  people,  of  the 
good  fortune  that  had  befallen  them.  We  could  see 
them  far  down  the  street,  pausing  a  moment  to 
look  in  at  the  shop-windows,  or  holding  up  their 
coppers  while  they  stopped  some  casual  passer-by 
and  made  him  listen  to  their  story — just  like  the 
Ancient  Mariner. 

122 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

By  this  time  the  dog-cart  was  ready.  The  land 
lord  charged  me  eighteen  shillings  for  the  drive  to 
Bridgewater,  nineteen  miles  away,  stopping  where 
we  liked,  and  sending  back  the  cart  with  the  post 
boy  that  evening.  By  the  look  on  his  face  I  judge 
that  he  thought  it  was  too  much.  But  I  did  not.  So 
we  climbed  to  the  high  seat,  Dorothea  took  the  reins 
and  the  whip,  and  we  set  forth  for  a  day  of  un- 
guide-booked  pleasure. 

What  good  roads  they  have  in  England!  Look 
at  the  piles  of  broken  stone  for  repairs,  stored  in 
little  niches  all  along  the  way;  see  how  promptly  and 
carefully  every  hole  is  filled  up  and  every  break 
mended;  and  you  will  understand  how  a  small  beast 
can  pull  a  heavy  load  in  this  country,  and  why  the 
big  draught-horses  wear  Jong  .and.  do-,  good  .work. 
A  country  with  a  fine  system  of  roads  is  like  a  man 
with  a  good  circulation  of  the  blood;  the  labour  of 
life  becomes  easier,  effort  is  reduced  and  pleasure 
increased. 

Bowling  along  the  smooth  road  we  crossed  a  small 
river  at  Doniford,  where  a  man  was  wading  the 
stream  below  the  bridge  and  fly-fishing  for  trout; 
123 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

we  passed  the  farmhouses  of  Rydon,  where  the 
steam- thresher  was  whirling,  and  the  wheat  was 
falling  in  golden  heaps,  and  the  pale-yellow  straw  was 
mounded  in  gigantic  ricks ;  and  then  we  climbed  the 
hill  behind  St.  Audries,  with  its  pretty  gray  church, 
and  manor  house  half  hidden  in  the  great  trees  of 
the  park. 

The  view  was  one  of  indescribable  beauty  and 
charm;  soft,  tranquil  woods  and  placid  fertile  fields; 
thatched  cottages  here  and  there,  sheltered  and  em 
bowered  in  green ;  far  away  on  the  shore,  the  village 
of  East  Quantockshead ;  beyond  that  the  broad, 
tossing  waters  of  the  Bristol  Channel;  and  beyond 
that  again,  thirty  miles  away,  the  silver  coast  of 
Wales  and  the  blue  mountains  fading  into  the  sky. 
Ships  were  sailing  in  and  out,  toy-like  in  the  distance. 
Far  to  the  north-west,  we  could  see  the  cliffs  of  the 
Devonshire  coast;  to  the  north-east  the  islands  of 
Steep  Holm  and  Flat  Holm  rose  from  the  Severn 
Sea;  and  around  the  point  beyond  them,  in  the  little 
churchyard  of  Clevedon,  I  knew  that  the  dust  of 
Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  whose  friendship  Tennyson 
has  immortalized  in  "In  Memoriam,"  was  sleeping 
124 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

"  By  the  pleasant  shore 
And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave." 

High  overhead  the  great  white  clouds  were  loiter 
ing  across  the  deep-blue  heaven.  White  butterflies 
wavered  above  the  road.  Tall  foxglove  spires  lit  the 
woodland  shadows  with  rosy  gleams.  Bluebells  and 
golden  ragwort  fringed  the  hedge-rows.  A  family  of 
young  wrens  fluttered  in  and  out  of  the  hawthorns. 
A  yellow-hammer,  with  cap  of  gold,  warbled  his 
sweet,  common  little  song.  The  colour  of  the  earth 
was  warm  and  red;  the  grass  was  of  a  green  so 
living  that  it  seemed  to  be  full  of  conscious  gladness. 
It  was  a  day  and  a  scene  to  calm  and  satisfy  the  heart. 

At  Kilve,  a  straggling  village  along  the  road-side, 
I  remembered  Wordsworth's  poem  called  "An  Anec 
dote  for  Fathers."  The  little  boy  in  the  poem  says 
that  he  would  rather  be  at  Kilve  than  at  Liswyn. 
When  his  father  foolishly  presses  him  to  give  a  reason 
for  his  preference,  he  invents  one: 

"At  Kilve  there  was  no  weather-cock, 
And  that's  the  reason  why." 

Naturally,  I  looked  around  the  village  to  see  whether 

125 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

it  would  still  answer  to  the  little  boy's  description. 
Sure  enough,  there  was  no  weather-cock  in  sight, 
not  even  on  the  church-tower. 

Not  far  beyond  Kilve  we  saw  a  white  house,  a 
mile  or  so  away,  standing  among  the  trees  to  the 
south,  at  the  foot  of  the  high-rolling  Quantock  Hills. 
Our  post-boy  told  us  that  it  was  Alfoxton,  "where 
Muster  Wudswuth  used  to  live,"  but  just  how  to  get 
to  it  he  did  not  know.  So  we  drove  into  the  next 
village  of  Holford  and  made  inquiry  at  the  "Giles* 
Plough  Inn,"  a  most  quaint  and  rustic  tavern  with 
a  huge  ancient  sign-board  on  the  wall,  representing 
Giles  with  his  white  horse  and  his  brown  horse  and 
his  plough.  Turning  right  and  left  and  right  again, 
through  narrow  lanes,  between  cottages  gay  with 
flowers,  we  came  to  a  wicket-gate  beside  an  old  stone 
building,  and  above  the  gate  a  notice  warning  all 
persons  not  to  trespass  on  the  grounds  of  Alfoxton. 
But  the  gate  was  on  the  latch,  and  a  cottager,  pass 
ing  by,  told  us  that  there  was  a  "right  of  way"  which 
could  not  be  closed — "goa  straight  on,  and  niwer 
fear,  nubbody  '11  harm  ye." 

A  few  steps  brought  us  into  the  thick  woods,  and 
126 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

to  the  edge  of  a  deep  glen,  spanned  by  a  bridge  made 
of  a  single  long  tree-trunk,  with  a  hand-rail  at  one 
side.  Down  below  us,  as  we  stood  on  the  swaying 
bridge,  a  stream  dashed  and  danced  and  sang 
through  the  shade,  among  the  ferns  and  mosses  and 
wild  flowers.  The  steep  sides  of  the  glen  glistened 
with  hollies  and  laurels,  tangled  and  confused  with 
blackberry  bushes.  Overhead  was  the  interwoven 
roof  of  oaks  and  ashes  and  beeches.  Here  it  was 
that  Wordsworth,  in  the  year  1797,  when  he  was 
feeling  his  way  back  from  the  despair  of  mind  which 
followed  the  shipwreck  of  his  early  revolutionary 
dreams,  used  to  wander  alone  or  with  his  dear  sister 
Dorothy.  And  here  he  composed  the  "  Lines  Written 
in  Early  Spring" — almost  the  first  notes  of  his  new 
poetic  power: 

"  I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes, 
While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

"  Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green  bower, 

The  periwinkle  trailed  its  leaves; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes." 

127 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

Climbing  up  to  the  drive,  we  followed  a  long 
curving  avenue  toward  the  house.  It  led  along  the 
breast  of  the  hill,  with  a  fine  view  under  the  spread 
ing  arms  of  the  great  beeches,  across  the  water  to 
the  Welsh  mountains.  On  the  left  the  woods  were 
thick.  Huge  old  hollies  showed  the  ravages  of  age 
and  storm.  A  riotous  undergrowth  of  bushes  and 
bracken  filled  the  spaces  between  the  taller  trees. 
Doves  were  murmuring  in  the  shade.  Rabbits 
scampered  across  the  road.  In  an  open  park  at  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  a  herd  of  twenty  or  thirty  fallow 
deer  with  pale  spotted  sides  and  twinkling  tails 
trotted  slowly  up  the  slope. 

Alfoxton  House  is  a  long,  two-story  building  of 
white  stucco,  with  a  pillared  porch  facing  the  hills. 
The  back  looks  out  over  a  walled  garden,  with  velvet 
turf  and  brilliant  flowers  and  pretty  evergreens, 
toward  the  sea-shore.  The  house  has  been  much 
changed  and  enlarged  since  the  days  when  young 
William  Wordsworth  rented  it,  (hardly  more  than  a 
good  farmhouse),  for  twenty-three  pounds  a  year, 
and  lived  in  it  with  his  sister  from  1797  to  1798,  in 
order  to  be  near  his  friend  Coleridge  at  Nether 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

Stowey.  There  is  not  a  room  that  remains  the  same, 
though  the  present  owner  has  wisely  brought  to 
gether  as  much  of  the  old  wood-work  as  possible 
into  one  chamber,  which  is  known  as  Wordsworth's 
study.  But  the  poet's  real  study  was  out  of  doors; 
and  it  was  there  that  we  looked  for  the  things  that 
he  loved. 

In  a  field  beyond  the  house  there  were  two  splen 
did  old  ash-trees,  which  must  have  been  full-grown 
in  Wordsworth's  day.  We  stretched  ourselves 
among  the  gnarled  roots,  my  little  Dorothy  and  I, 
and  fed  our  eyes  upon  the  view  that  must  have 
often  refreshed  him,  while  his  Dorothy  was  leading 
his  heart  back  with  gentle  touches  toward  the  re 
covery  of  joy.  There  was  the  soft,  dimpled  land 
scape,  in  tones  of  silvery  verdure,  blue  in  distance, 
green  near  at  hand,  sloping  down  to  the  shining  sea. 
The  sky  was  delicate  and  friendly,  bending  close 
above  us,  with  long  lines  of  snowy  clouds.  There 
was  hardly  a  breath  of  wind.  Far  to  the  east  we 
saw  the  rich  plain  rolling  away  to  Bridgewater  and 
the  bare  line  of  the  distant  Mendip  Hills.  Shadows 
of  clouds  swept  slowly  across  the  land.  Colours 
129 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

shifted  and  blended.     On  the  steep  hill  behind  us  a 
row  of  trees  stood  out  clear  against  the  blue. 

"With  ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh." 

What  induced  Wordsworth  to  leave  a  place  so 
beautiful  ?  A  most  prosaic  reason.  He  was  prac 
tically  driven  out  by  the  suspicion  and  mistrust  of 
his  country  neighbours.  A  poet  was  a  creature  that 
they  could  not  understand.  His  long  rambles  among 
the  hills  by  day  and  night,  regardless  of  the  weather; 
his  habit  of  talking  to  himself:  his  intimacy  and  his 
constant  conferences  on  unknown  subjects  with 
Coleridge,  whose  radical  ideas  were  no  secret;  his 
friendship  with  Thelwall  the  republican,  who  came 
to  reside  in  the  neighbourhood ;  the  rumour  that  the 
poet  had  lived  in  France  and  sympathized  with  the 
Revolution — all  these  were  dark  and  damning  evi 
dences  to  the  rustic  mind  that  there  was  something 
wrong  about  this  long-legged,  sober-faced,  feckless 
young  man.  Probably  he  was  a  conspirator,  plot 
ting  the  overthrow  of  the  English  Government,  or  at 
least  of  the  Tory  party.  So  ran  the  talk  of  the 
country-side;  and  the  lady  who  owned  Alfoxton  was 
130 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

so  alarmed  by  it  that  she  declined  to  harbour  such  a 
dangerous  tenant  any  longer.  Wordsworth  went 
with  his  sister  to  Germany  in  1798;  and  in  the  fol 
lowing  year  they  found  a  new  home  at  Dove  Cottage, 
in  Grasmere,  among  the  English  lakes. 

On  our  way  out  to  the  place  where  we  had  left  our 
equipage,  we  met  the  owner  of  the  estate,  walking 
with  his  dogs.  He  was  much  less  fierce  than  his 
placard.  It  may  have  been  something  in  Doro 
thea's  way  that  mollified  him,  but  at  all  events  he 
turned  and  walked  with  us  to  show  us  the  way  up 
the  "Hareknap" — the  war-path  of  ancient  armies — 
to  a  famous  point  of  view.  There  we  saw  the  Quan- 
tock  Hills,  rolling  all  around  us.  They  were  like 
long  smooth  steep  billows  of  earth,  covered  with 
bracken,  and  gorse,  and  heather  just  coming  into 
bloom.  Thick  woodlands  hung  on  their  sides, 
but  above  their  purple  shoulders  the  ridges  were 
bare.  They  looked  more  than  a  thousand  feet  high. 
Among  their  cloven  combes,  deep-thicketed  and 
watered  with  cool  springs,  the  wild  red  deer  still 
find  a  home.  And  it  was  here  (not  in  Cardigan 
shire  as  the  poem  puts  it)  that  Wordsworth's  old 
131 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

huntsman,    "Simon    Lee,"    followed   the  chase  of 
the  stag. 

It  was  a  three-mile  drive  from  Holford  to  Nether 
Stowey.  Dorothea  remarked  that  Coleridge  and  the 
Wordsworths  must  have  been  great  walkers  if  this 
was  their  idea  of  living  close  together.  And  so  they 
were,  for  that  bit  of  road  seemed  to  them  only  a 
prelude  to  a  real  walk  of  twenty  or  thirty  miles. 
The  exercise  put  them  in  tune  for  poetry,  and  their 
best  thoughts  came  to  them  when  they  were  afoot. 

"The  George"  at  Nether  Stowey  is  a  very  modest 
inn,  the  entrance  paved  with  flag-stones,  the  only 
public  room  a  low-ceiled  parlour;  but  its  merits  are 
far  beyond  its  pretensions.  We  lunched  there  most 
comfortably  on  roast  duck  and  green  peas,  cherry 
tart  and  cheese,  and  then  set  out  to  explore  the 
village,  which  is  closely  built  along  the  roads  whose 
junction  is  marked  by  a  little  clock-tower.  The 
market-street  is  paved  with  cobble-stones,  and  down 
one  side  of  it  runs  a  small  brook,  partly  built  in 
and  covered  over,  but  making  a  merry  noise  all  the 
way.  Coleridge  speaks  of  it  in  his  letters  as  "the 
dear  gutter  of  Stowey." 

132 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

Just  outside  of  the  town  is  the  Castle  Mound,  a 
steep,  grassy  hill,  to  the  top  of  which  we  climbed. 
There  was  the  distinct  outline  of  the  foundations  of 
the  old  castle,  built  in  the  Norman  times;  we  could 
trace  the  moat,  and  the  court,  and  all  the  separate 
rooms;  but  not  a  stone  of  the  walls  remained — only 
a  ground-plan  drawn  in  the  turf  of  the  hill- top.  All 
the  pride  and  power  of  the  Norman  barons  had 
passed  like  the  clouds  that  were  sailing  over  the 
smooth  ridges  of  the  Quantocks. 

Coleridge  was  twenty-four  years  old  when  he 
came  to  Nether  Stowey  with  his  young  wife  and  a 
boy  baby.  Troubles  had  begun  to  gather  around 
him;  he  was  very  poor,  tormented  with  neuralgia, 
unable  to  find  regular  occupation,  and  estranged  by 
a  quarrel  from  his  friend  and  brother-in-law,  Robert 
Southey.  Thomas  Poole,  a  well-to-do  tanner  at 
Nether  Stowey,  a  man  of  good  education  and  noble 
character,  a  great  lover  of  poetry  and  liberty,  had 
befriended  Coleridge  and  won  his  deep  regard  and 
affection.  Nothing  would  do  but  that  Poole  should 
find  a  cottage  near  to  his  own  house,  where  the  poet 
could  live  in  quietude  and  congenial  companionship. 
133 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

The  cottage  was  found:  and,  in  spite  of  Poolers 
misgivings  about  its  size,  and  his  warnings  in  regard 
to  the  tedium  and  depression  of  village  life,  Coleridge 
took  it  and  moved  in  with  his  little  family  on  the 
last  day  of  the  year  1796 — a  cold  season  for  a  "flit 
ting!"  We  can  imagine  the  young  people  coming 
down  the  Bridgewater  road  through  the  wintry 
weather  with  their  few  household  goods  in  a  cart. 

The  cottage  was  at  the  western  end  of  the  village; 
and  there  it  stands  yet,  a  poor,  ugly  house,  close  on 
the  street.  We  went  in,  and  after  making  clear  to 
the  good  woman  who  owned  it  that  we  were  not 
looking  for  lodgings,  we  saw  all  that  there  was  to 
see  of  the  dwelling.  There  were  four  rooms,  two 
downstairs  and  two  above.  All  were  bare  and  dis 
orderly,  because,  as  the  woman  explained,  house- 
cleaning  was  in  progress.  It  was  needed.  She 
showed  us  a  winding  stair,  hardly  better  than  a 
ladder,  which  led  from  the  lower  to  the  upper  rooms. 
There  was  no  view,  no  garden.  But  in  Coleridge's 
day  there  was  a  small  plot  of  ground  belonging  to 
the  house  and  running  back  to  the  large  and  pleasant 
place  of  his  friend  Poole.  It  was  upon  this  little 
134 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

garden  that  the  imagination  of  the  new  tenant  was 
fixed,  and  there  he  saw,  in  his  dream,  the  corn  and 
the  cabbages  and  the  potatoes  growing  luxuriantly 
under  his  watchful  and  happy  care;  enough,  he 
hoped,  to  feed  himself  and  his  family,  and  to  keep  a 
couple  of  what  he  called  "snouted  and  grunting 
cousins"  on  the  surplus.  "Literature,"  he  wrote, 
"though  I  shall  never  abandon  it,  will  always  be  a 
secondary  object  with  me.  My  poetic  vanity  and 
my  political  favour  have  been  exhaled,  and  I  would 
rather  be  an  expert,  self-maintaining  gardener  than 
a  Milton,  if  I  could  not  unite  them  both."  How 
amusing  are  men's  dreams — those  of  humility  as 
well  as  those  of  ambition!  There  is  a  peculiarly 
Coleridgean  touch  in  that  last  hint  of  uniting  Milton 
and  the  market-gardener. 

In  fact,  I  doubt  whether  the  garden  ever  paid 
expenses ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  crop  of  poetry 
that  sprung  from  Coleridge's  marvellous  mind  was 
rich  and  splendid.  It  was  while  he  lived  in  this  poor 
little  cottage  that  he  produced  "Osorio,"  "Fears  in 
Solitude,"  "Ode  to  France,"  the  first  part  of  "Chris- 
tabel,"  "Frost  at  Midnight,"  "The  Nightingale," 

135 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

"Kubla  Khan,"  and  "The  Ancient  Mariner,"  and 
planned  with  his  friend  Wordsworth  "Lyrical  Bal 
lads,"  the  most  epoch-making  book  of  modern  Eng 
lish  poetry.  Truly  this  year,  from  April,  1797,  to 
April,  1798,  was  the  annus  mirabilis  of  his  life. 
Never  again  was  he  so  happy,  never  again  did  he 
do  such  good  work,  as  when  he  harboured  in  this 
cottage,  and  slipped  through  the  back  gate  to  walk 
in  the  garden  or  read  in  the  library  of  his  good 
friend,  Thomas  Poole,  or  trudged  down  the  road  to 
the  woods  of  Alfoxton  to  talk  with  the  Wordsworths. 
He  wrote  lovingly  of  the  place: 

"And  now,  beloved  Stowey,  I  behold 
Thy  Church-tower,  and  methinks,  the  four  huge  elms 
Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend; 
And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 
Is  my  own  lovely  cottage,  where  my  babe 
And  my  babe's  mother  dwell  in  peace." 

Dorothea  and  I  were  not  sure  that  Mrs.  Coleridge 
enjoyed  the  cottage  as  much  as  he  did.  Greta  Hall, 
at  Keswick,  with  its  light  airy  rooms  and  its  splendid 
view,  was  her  next  home;  and  when  we  saw  it,  a 
few  weeks  later,  we  were  glad  that  the  babe  and  the 
babe's  mother  had  lived  there. 
136 


AMONG    THE    QUANTOCK    HILLS 

But  the  afternoon  was  waning,  and  we  must  turn 
our  back  to  the  Quantocks,  and  take  to  the  road 
again.  Past  the  church  and  the  manor  house,  with 
its  odd  little  turreted  summer-house,  or  gazebo, 
perched  on  the  corner  of  the  garden- wall;  past  a 
row  of  ancient  larch-trees  and  a  grove  of  Scotch 
pines;  past  smooth-rolling  meadows  full  of  cattle 
and  sheep;  past  green  orchards  full  of  fruit  for  the 
famous  and  potent  Somereset  cider;  past  the  old 
town  of  Cannington,  where  the  fair  Rosamund  was 
born,  and  where,  on  our  day,  we  saw  the  whole 
population  in  the  streets,  perturbed  by  some  un 
known  excitement  and  running  to  and  fro  like  mad 
folks;  past  sleepy  farms  and  spacious  parks  and 
snug  villas,  we  rolled  along  the  high-road,  into 
Bridgewater,  a  small  city,  where  they  make  "Bath 
bricks,"  and  where  the  statue  of  Admiral  Blake 
swaggers  sturdily  in  the  market-place.  There  we 
took  the  train  to  join  our  friends  at  dinner  in  Bristol; 
and  so  ended  our  day  among  the  Quantock  Hills. 


137 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 


other  time  of  the  year,  on  our  northern  At 
lantic  seaboard,  is  so  alluring,  so  delicate  and  subtle 
in  its  charm,  as  that  which  follows  the  fading  of  the 
bright  blue  lupins  in  the  meadows  and  along  the 
banks  of  the  open  streams,  and  precedes  the  rosy 
flush  of  myriad  laurels  in  full  bloom  on  the  half- 
wooded  hillsides,  and  in  the  forest  glades,  and  under 
the  lofty  shadow  of  the  groves  of  yellow  pine.  Then, 
for  a  little  while,  the  spring  delays  to  bourgeon  into 
summer:  the  woodland  maid  lingers  at  the  gar 
den  gate  of  womanhood,  reluctant  to  enter  and 
leave  behind  the  wild  sweetness  of  freedom  and 
uncertainty. 

Winter  is  gone  for  good  and  all.  There  is  no  fear 
that  he  will  come  sneaking  back  with  cold  hands  to 
fetch  something  that  he  has  forgotten.  Nature  is 
secure  of  another  season  of  love,  of  mating,  of  germi 
nation,  of  growth,  of  maturity  —  a  fair  four  months 
in  which  the  joyful  spirit  of  life  may  have  its  way 
and  work  its  will.  The  brown  earth  seems  to  thrill 
141 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

and  quicken  everywhere  with  new  impulses  which 
transform  it  into  springing  grass  and  overflowing 
flowers.  The  rivers  are  at  their  best:  strong  and 
clear  and  musical,  the  turbulence  of  early  floods  de 
parted,  the  languor  of  later  droughts  not  yet  appear 
ing.  The  shrunken  woods  expand;  the  stringent, 
sparkling  wintry  stars  grow  mild  and  liquid,  shining 
with  a  tremulous  and  tender  light;  the  whole  world 
seems  larger,  happier,  more  full  of  untold,  untried 
possibilities.  The  air  vibrates  with  wordless  prom 
ises,  calls,  messages,  beckonings;  and  fairy-tales  are 
told  by  all  the  whispering  leaves. 

Yet  though  the  open  season  is  now  secure,  it  is  not 
yet  settled.  No  chance  of  a  relapse  into  the  winter's 
death,  but  plenty  of  change  in  the  unfolding  of  the 
summer's  life.  There  are  still  caprices  and  way 
ward  turns  in  nature's  moods;  cold  nights  when  the 
frost-elves  are  hovering  in  the  upper  air;  windy 
mornings  which  shake  and  buffet  the  tree-tassels  and 
light  embroidered  leaves;  sudden  heats  of  tranquil 
noon  through  which  the  sunlight  pours  like  a  flood 
of  eager  love,  pressing  to  create  new  life. 

Birds  are  still  mating;  and  quarrelling,  too.  Their 
142 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

songs,  their  cries  of  agitation  and  expectancy,  their 
call  notes,  their  lyrical  outpourings  of  desire  are 
more  varied  and  more  copious  than  ever.  All  day 
long  they  are  singing,  and  every  hour  on  the  wing, 
coming  up  from  the  southward,  passing  on  to  the 
northward,  fluttering  through  the  thickets,  exploring 
secret  places,  choosing  homes  and  building  nests. 
In  every  coppice  there  is  a  running  to  and  fro,  a 
creeping,  a  scampering,  and  a  leaping  of  wild 
creatures.  At  the  roots  of  the  bushes  and  weeds  and 
sedges,  in  the  soft  recesses  of  the  moss,  and  through 
the  intricate  tangle  of  withered  grass-blades  pierced 
with  bright-green  shoots,  there  is  a  manifold  stir  of 
insect  life.  In  the  air  millions  of  gauzy  wings  are 
quivering,  swarms  of  ethereal,  perishable  creatures 
rising  and  falling  and  circling  in  mystical  dances  of 
joy.  Fish  are  leaping  along  the  stream.  The  night 
breeze  trembles  with  the  shrill,  piercing  chorus  of 
the  innumerable  hylas. 

Late  trees,  like  the  ash,  the  white  oak,  the  butter 
nut,  are  still  delaying  to  put  forth  their  full  foliage; 
veiled  in  tender,  transparent  green,  or  flushed  with 
faint  pink,  they  stand  as  if  they  were  waiting  for  a 
143 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

set  time;  and  the  tiny  round  buds  on  the  laurels, 
clustered  in  countless  umbels  of  bright  rose  among 
the  dark  green,  glistening  leaves,  are  closed,  hiding 
their  perfect  beauty  until  the  day  appointed.  It  is 
the  season  of  the  unfulfilled  desire,  the  eager  hope, 
the  coming  surprise.  To-day  the  world  is  beautiful ; 
but  to-morrow,  next  day — who  knows  when? — 
something  more  beautiful  is  coming,  something  new, 
something  perfect.  This  is  the  lure  of  wild  nature 
between  the  lupin  and  the  laurel. 

At  such  a  season  it  is  hard  to  stay  at  home.  The 
streets  all  seem  to  lead  into  the  country,  and  one 
longs  to  follow  their  leading,  out  into  the  highway, 
on  into  the  winding  lane,  on  into  the  wood-road,  on 
and  on,  until  one  comes  to  that  mysterious  and 
delightful  ending,  (told  of  in  the  familiar  saying,) 
where  the  road  finally  dwindles  into  a  squirrel  track 
and  runs  up  a  tree — not  an  ending  at  all,  you  see, 
but  really  a  beginning!  For  there  is  the  tree;  and 
if  you  climb  it,  who  knows  what  new  landscape,  what 
lively  adventure,  will  open  before  you?  At  any 
rate,  you  will  get  away  from  the  tyranny  of  the  com 
monplace,  the  conventional,  the  methodical,  which 
144 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

transforms  the  rhythm  of  life  into  a  logarithm. 
Even  a  small  variation,  a  taste  of  surprise,  will  give 
you  what  you  need  as  a  spring  tonic:  the  sense  of 
escape,  a  day  off. 

Living  in  a  university  town,  and  participating  with 
fidelity  in  its  principal  industry,  I  find  that  my  own 
particular  nightmare  of  monotony  takes  the  form  of 
examination  papers — quires  of  them,  reams  of  them, 
stacks  of  them — a  horrid  incubus,  always  oppressive, 
but  then  most  unendurable  when  the  book-room 
begins  to  smell  musty  in  the  morning,  and  the  fire 
is  unlit  upon  the  hearth,  and  last  night's  student- 
lamp  is  stuccoed  all  over  with  tiny  gnats,  and  the 
breath  of  the  blossoming  grape  is  wafted  in  at  the 
open  window,  and  the  robins,  those  melodious  row 
dies,  are  whistling  and  piping  over  the  lawn  and 
through  the  trees  in  voluble  mockery  of  the  profes 
sor's  task.  "Come  out,"  they  say,  "come  out!  Why 
do  you  look  in  a  book?  Double,  double,  toil  and 
trouble!  Give  it  up — tup,  tup,  tup!  Come  away 
and  play  for  a  day.  What  do  you  know  ?  Let  it  go. 
You're  as  dry  as  a  chip,  chip,  chip !  Come  out,  won't 
you?  will  you?" 

145 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

Truly,  these  examination  questions  that  I  framed 
with  such  pains  look  very  dull  and  tedious  now — a 
desiccation  of  the  beautiful  work  of  the  great  poets. 
And  these  answers  that  the  boys  have  wrought  out 
with  such  pains,  on  innumerable  pads  of  sleazy  white 
paper,  how  little  they  tell  me  of  what  the  fellows 
really  know  and  feel!  Examination  papers  are 
"requisite  and  necessary,"  of  course;  I  can't  deny 
it — requisite  formalities  and  necessary  absurdities. 
But  to  turn  the  last  page  of  the  last  pad,  and  mark  it 
with  a  red  pencil  and  add  it  to  the  pile  of  miseries 
past,  and  slip  away  from  books  to  nature,  from 
learning  to  life,  between  the  lupin  and  the  laurel — 
that  is  a  pleasure  doubled  by  release  from  pain. 

I  think  a  prize  should  be  offered  for  the  discovery 
of  good  places  to  take  a  free  and  natural  outing  within 
easy  reach  of  the  great  city  and  the  routine  of  civil 
ized  work — just-over-the-fence  retreats,  to  which 
you  can  run  off  without  much  preparation,  and  from 
which  you  can  come  back  again  before  your  little 
world  discovers  your  absence.  That  was  the  charm 
of  Hopkinson  Smith's  sketch,  "A  Day  at  Laguerre's  " ; 
and  an  English  writer  who  calls  himself  "A  Son  of 
146 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

the  Marshes"  has  written  a  delightful  book  of  in 
terviews  with  birds  and  other  wild  things,  which 
bears  the  attractive  title,  "Within  an  Hour  of  Lon 
don  Town,"  But  I  would  make  it  a  condition  of 
the  prize  that  the  name  of  the  hiding-place  should  not 
be  published,  lest  the  careless,  fad-following  crowd 
should  flock  thither  and  spoil  it.  Let  the  precious 
news  be  communicated  only  by  word  of  mouth,  or 
by  letter,  as  a  confidence  and  gift  of  friendship,  so 
that  none  but  the  like-minded  may  strike  the  trail 
to  the  next-door  remnant  of  Eden. 

It  was  thus  that  my  four  friends — Friends  in  creed 
as  well  as  in  deed — told  to  me,  one  of  "the  world's 
people,"  toiling  over  my  benumbing  examination 
papers,  their  secret  find  of  a  little  river  in  South 
Jersey,  less  than  an  hour  from  Philadelphia,  where 
one  could  float  in  a  canoe  through  mile  after  mile  of 
unbroken  woodland,  and  camp  at  night  in  a  bit  of 
wilderness  as  wildly  fair  as  when  the  wigwams  of 
the  Lenni-Lenape  were  hidden  among  its  pine 
groves.  The  Friends  said  that  they  " had  a  concern  " 
to  guide  me  to  their  delectable  retreat,  and  that 
they  hoped  the  "way  would  open"  for  me  to  come. 
147 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

Canoes  and  tents  and  camp-kit  ?  "  That  will  all  be 
provided:  it  is  well  not  to  be  anxious  concerning 
these  sublunary  things."  Mosquitoes?  "Concern 
ing  this,  also,  thee  must  learn  to  put  thy  trust  in 
Providence;  yet  there  is  a  happy  interval,  as  it  were, 
between  the  fading  of  the  hepatica  and  the  blooming 
of  the  mosquito,  when  the  woods  of  South  Jersey 
are  habitable  for  man,  and  it  would  be  most  prudent 
to  choose  this  season  for  the  exercise  of  providential 
trust  regarding  mosquitoes."  Examination  papers  ? 
Duty?  "Surely  thee  must  do  what  thee  thinks  will 
do  most  good,  and  follow  the  inward  voice.  And  if 
it  calls  thee  to  stay  with  the  examination  papers,  or 
if  it  calls  thee  to  go  with  us,  whichever  way,  thee  will 
be  resigned  to  obey."  Fortunately,  there  was  no 
doubt  about  the  inward  voice;  it  was  echoing  the 
robins;  it  was  calling  me  to  go  out  like  Elijah  and 
dwell  under  a  juniper-tree  I  replied  to  the  Friends 
in  the  words  of  one  of  their  own  preachers:  "I  am 
resigned  to  go,  or  resigned  to  stay,  but  most  resigned 
to  go";  and  we  went. 

The  statue  of  William  Penn  seemed  to  look  be- 
nignantly  down  upon  us  as  we  passed,   bag  and 
148 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

bundle  in  hand,  along  the  regular  Philadelphia  short 
cut  which  leads  through  the  bowels  of  the  Court 
house,  from  the  Broad  Street  station  to  John  Wana- 
maker's  store.  Philadelphians  always  have  the  air 
of  doing  something  very  modern,  hurried,  and  time- 
saving  when  they  lead  you  through  that  short-cut. 
But  we  were  not  really  in  a  hurry;  we  had  all  the 
time  there  is;  we  could  afford  to  gape  a  little  in  the 
shop-windows.  The  spasmodic  Market  Street  trol 
ley-car  and  the  deliberate  Camden  ferry-boat  were 
rapid  enough  for  us.  The  gait  of  the  train  on  the 
Great  Sandy  and  Oceanic  Railway  was  neither  too 
fast  nor  too  slow.  Even  the  deserted  condition  of 
Hummingtown,  where  we  disembarked  about  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  found  that  the  entire 
population  had  apparently  gone  to  a  Decoration  Day 
ball-game,  leaving  post-office,  telegraph  station,  fruit 
store,  bakery,  all  closed — even  this  failure  to  meet 
our  expectations  did  not  put  us  out  of  humour  with 
the  universe,  or  call  forth  rude  words  on  the  degen 
eracy  of  modern  times. 

Our  good  temper  was  imperturbable;  for  had  we 
not  all  <(  escaped  as  a  bird  from  the  hand  of  the 
149 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

fowler" — Master  Thomas  from  the  mastery  of  his 
famous  boarding-school  in  Old  Chester,  and  Friends 
Walter  and  Arthur  from  the  uninspired  scripture  of 
their  ledgers  and  day-books,  and  I  from  the  incuba 
tion  of  those  hideous  examination  papers,  and  the 
gentle  Friend  William  from  his — there!  I  have  for 
gotten  what  particular  monotony  William  was  glad 
to  get  away  from;  but  I  know  it  was  from  some 
thing.  I  could  read  it  in  his  face;  in  his  pleased, 
communicative  silence;  in  the  air  of  almost  reckless 
abandon  with  which  he  took  off  his  straight-breasted 
Quaker  coat,  and  started  out  in  his  shirt-sleeves  to 
walk  with  Walter,  ahead  of  the  cart  which  carried  our 
two  canoes  and  the  rest  of  us  over  to  the  river. 

It  was  just  an  ordinary  express  w.agon,  with  two 
long,  heavy  planks  fastened  across  the  top  of  it.  On 
these  the  canoes  were  lashed,  with  their  prows  pro 
jecting  on  either  flank  of  the  huge,  pachydermatous 
horse,  who  turned  his  head  slowly  from  one  side  to 
the  other,  as  he  stalked  along  the  level  road,  and 
looked  back  at  his  new  environment  with  stolid 
wonder.  He  must  have  felt  as  if  he  were  suffering 
"a  sea  change,"  and  going  into  training  for  Nep- 
150 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

tune's  stud.  The  driver  sat  on  the  dashboard  be 
tween  the  canoes;  and  Master  Thomas,  Arthur,  and 
I  were  perched  upon  the  ends  of  the  planks  with  our 
feet  dangling  over  the  road.  It  was  not  exactly  what 
one  would  call  an  elegant  equipage,  but  it  rolled 
along. 

The  road  was  of  an  uncompromising  straightness. 
It  lay  across  the  slightly  undulating  sandy  plain  like 
a  long  yellow  ruler;  and  on  each  side  were  the  neatly 
marked  squares  and  parallelograms  of  the  little  truck 
farms,  all  cultivated  by  Italians.  Their  new  and  un 
abashed  frame  houses  were  freshly  painted  in  in 
credible  tones  of  carrot  yellow,  pea  green,  and  radish 
pink.  The  few  shade  trees  and  the  many  fruit  trees, 
with  whitewashed  trunks,  were  set  out  in  unbending 
regularity  of  line.  The  women  and  children  were 
working  in  the  rows  of  strawberries  which  covered 
acre  after  acre  of  white  sand  with  stripes  of  deep 
green.  Some  groups  of  people  by  the  wayside  were 
chattering  merrily  together  in  the  language  which 
Byron  calls 

"  That  soft  bastard  Latin 
Which  inelts  like  kisses  from  a  woman's  mouth." 

151 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

It  was  a  scene  of  foreign  industry  and  cheerfulness,  a 
bit  of  little  Italy  transplanted.  Only  the  landscape 
was  distinctly  not  Italian,  but  South  Jersey  to  the 
core.  Yet  the  people  seemed  at  home  and  happy  in 
it.  Perhaps  prosperity  made  up  to  them  for  the  loss 
of  picturesqueness. 

At  New  Prussia  the  road  was  lifted  by  a  little  ridge, 
and  for  a  few  minutes  we  travelled  through  another 
European  country.  Two  young  men  were  passing 
ball  in  front  of  a  beer  saloon.  "Vot's  der  news?" 
said  one  of  them  in  a  strong  German  accent.  We 
were  at  a  loss  for  an  answer,  as  it  was  rather  a  dull 
time  in  international  politics;  but  Master  Thomas 
began  to  say  something  about  the  riots  in  Russia. 
"Russia  hell!"  said  the  young  man.  "How's  der 
ball-game?  Vas  our  nine  of  Hummingtown  ahead 
yet?"  We  could  give  no  information  on  this  im 
portant  subject,  but  we  perceived  that  New  Prussia 
was  already  Americanized. 

A  mile  or  so  beyond  this  the  road  dipped  gently 

into  a  shallow,  sparsely  wooded  valley  and  we  came 

to  a  well-built  stone  bridge  which  spanned,  with  a 

single  narrow  arch,  the  little  river  of  our  voyage.     It 

152 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

was  like  a  big  brook,  flowing  with  deep,  brown  cur 
rent  out  of  a  thicket,  and  on  through  a  small  cran 
berry  bog  below  the  bridge.  Here  we  launched  and 
loaded  our  canoes,  and  went  down  with  the  stream, 
through  a  bit  of  brushy  woodland,  till  we  found  a 
good  place  for  luncheon.  For  though  it  was  long 
past  noon  and  we  were  very  hungry,  we  wanted  to 
get  really  into  the  woods  before  we  broke  bread  to 
gether. 

Scanty  woods  they  were,  indeed ;  just  a  few  scrub 
pines  growing  out  of  a  bank  of  clean  white  sand. 
But  we  spread  a  rubber  blanket  in  their  thin  shade, 
and  set  forth  our  repast  of  biscuits  and  smoked  beef 
and  olives,  and  fell  to  eating  as  heartily  and  merrily 
as  if  it  had  been  a  banquet.  The  yellow  warblers  and 
the  song  sparrows  were  flitting  about  us;  and  two 
cat-birds  and  a  yellow-throat  were  singing  from  the 
thicket  on  the  opposite  shore.  There  were  patches 
of  snowy  sand-myrtle  and  yellow  poverty-plant  grow 
ing  around  our  table;  tiny,  hardy,  heath-like  crea 
tures,  delicately  wrought  with  bloom  as  if  for  a 
king's  palace;  irrepressible  and  lovely  offspring  of 
the  yearning  for  beauty  that  hides  in  the  poorest 
153 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

place  of  earth.  In  a  still  arm  of  the  stream,  a  few 
yards  above  us,  was  a  clump  of  the  long,  naked 
flower-scapes  of  the  golden-club,  now  half  entered 
upon  their  silvery  stage. 

It  was  strange  what  pleasure  these  small  gifts  of 
blossom  and  song  brought  to  us.  We  were  in  the 
mood  which  Wordsworth  describes  in  the  lines 
written  in  his  pocket-copy  of  "The  Castle  of  Indo 
lence": 

"There  did  they  dwell,  from  earthly  labour  free, 

As  happy  spirits  as  were  ever  seen; 
If  but  a  bird,  to  keep  them  company, 

Or  butterfly  sate  down,  they  were,  I  ween, 

As  pleased  as  if  the  same  had  been  a  Maiden-queen." 

But  our  "earthly  labour"  began  again  when  we 
started  down  the  stream;  for  now  we  had  fairly  en 
tered  the  long  strip  of  wilderness  which  curtains  its 
winding  course.  On  either  hand  the  thickets  came 
down  so  close  to  the  water  that  there  were  no  banks 
left;  just  woods  and  water  blending;  and  the  dark 
topaz  current  swirling  and  gurgling  through  a  clump 
of  bushes  or  round  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  as  if  it  did 
not  care  what  path  it  took  so  long  as  it  got  through. 
154 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

Alders  and  pussy-willows,  viburnums,  clethras,  choke- 
cherries,  swamp  maples,  red  birches,  and  all  sorts 
of  trees  and  shrubs  that  are  water-loving,  made  an 
intricate  labyrinth  for  the  stream  to  thread;  and 
through  the  tangle,  cat-briers,  blackberries,  fox 
grapes,  and  poison  ivy  were  interlaced. 

Worst  of  all  was  the  poison  ivy,  which  seemed  here 
to  deserve  its  other  name  of  poison  oak,  for  it  was 
more  like  a  tree  than  a  vine,  flinging  its  knotted 
branches  from  shore  to  shore,  and  thrusting  its  pallid, 
venomous  blossoms  into  our  faces.  Walter  was  es 
pecially  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  this  poison, 
so  we  put  him  in  the  middle  of  our  canoe,  and  I, 
being  a  veteran  and  immune,  took  the  bow-paddle. 
It  was  no  easy  task  to  guide  the  boat  down  the  swift 
current,  for  it  was  bewilderingly  crooked,  twisting 
and  turning  upon  itself  in  a  way  that  would  have 
made  the  far-famed  Mseander  look  like  a  straight 
line.  Many  a  time  it  ran  us  deep  into  the  alders, 
or  through  a  snarl  of  thorn-set  vines,  or  crowded  us 
under  the  trunk  of  an  overhanging  tree.  We 
glimpsed  the  sun  through  the  young  leaves,  now  on 
our  right  hand,  now  on  our  left,  now  in  front  of 
155 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

us,  and  now  over  our  shoulders.  After  several  miles 
of  this  curliewurlie  course,  the  incoming  of  the 
Penny  Pot  Stream  on  the  left  broadened  the  flow 
ing  trail  a  little.  Not  far  below  that,  the  Hospi 
tality  Branch  poured  in  its  abundant  waters  on  the 
right,  and  we  went  floating  easily  down  a  fair,  open 
river. 

There  were  banks  now,  and  they  were  fringed  with 
green  borders  of  aquatic  plants,  rushes,  and  broad 
spatter-docks,  and  flags,  and  arrow-heads,  and 
marsh-marigolds,  and  round-leaved  pond-lilies,  and 
pointed  pickerel-weed.  The  current  was  still  rapid 
and  strong,  but  it  flowed  smoothly  through  the 
straight  reaches  and  around  the  wide  curves.  On 
either  hand  the  trees  grew  taller  and  more  stately. 
The  mellow  light  of  afternoon  deepened  behind  them, 
and  the  rich  cloud  colours  of  approaching  sunset 
tinged  the  mirror  of  the  river  with  orange  and  rose. 
We  floated  into  a  strip  of  forest.  The  stream  slack 
ened  and  spread  out,  broadening  into  the  head  of  a 
pond.  On  the  left,  there  was  a  point  of  higher  land, 
almost  like  a  low  bluff,  rising  ten  or  twelve  feet  above 
the  water  and  covered  with  a  grove  of  oaks  and 
156 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL  * 

white  pines.  Here  we  beached  our  canoes  and 
made  our  first  camp. 

A  slender  pole  was  nailed  horizontally  between  two 
trees,  and  from  this  the  shelter  tent  was  stretched 
with  its  sloping  roof  to  the  breeze  and  its  front  open 
toward  the  pond.  There  were  no  balsam  or  hem 
lock  boughs  for  the  beds,  so  we  gathered  armfuls  of 
fallen  leaves  and  pine  needles,  and  spread  our  blan 
kets  on  this  rude  mattress.  Arthur  and  Walter  cut 
wood  for  the  fire.  Master  Thomas  and  William 
busied  themselves  with  the  supper.  There  was  a 
famous  dish  of  scrambled  eggs,  and  creamed  pota 
toes,  and  bacon,  and  I  know  not  what  else.  We  ate 
till  we  could  eat  no  more,  and  then  we  sat  in  the 
wide-open  tent,  with  the  camp-fire  blazing  in  front 
of  us,  and  talked  of  everything  under  the  stars. 

I  like  the  Quaker  speech:  the  gentle  intimacy  of 
their  "little  language,"  with  its  quaint  "thees"  and 
"thous,"  and  the  curious  turn  they  give  to  their 
verbs,  disregarding  the  formalities  of  grammar. 
"Will  thee  go,"  "has  thee  seen,"  "does  thee  like"— 
that  is  the  way  they  speak  it;  an  unjustifiable  way, 
I  know,  but  it  sounds  pleasantly.  I  like  the  Quaker 
157 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

spirit  and  manners,  at  least  as  I  have  found  them  in 
my  friends:  sober  but  not  sad,  plain  but  very  con 
siderate,  genuinely  simple  in  the  very  texture  of  their 
thoughts  and  feelings,  and  not  averse  to  that  quiet 
mirth  which  leaves  no  bitter  taste  behind  it.  One 
thing  that  I  cannot  understand  in  Charles  Lamb  is 
his  confession,  in  the  essay  on  "Imperfect  Sympa 
thies,"  that  he  had  a  prejudice  against  Quakers. 
But  then  I  remember  that  one  of  his  best  bits  of 
prose  is  called  "A  Quaker's  Meeting,"  and  one  of 
his  best  poems  is  about  the  Quaker  maiden,  Hester 
Savory,  and  one  of  his  best  lovers  and  companions 
was  the  broad-brim  Bernard  Barton.  I  conclude 
that  there  must  be  different  kinds  of  Quakers,  as 
there  are  of  other  folks,  and  that  my  particular 
Friends  belong  to  the  tribe  of  Bernard  and  Hester, 
and  their  spiritual  ancestry  is  in  the  same  line  with 
the  poet  Whittier. 

Yet  even  these  four  are  by  no  means  of  one  pat 
tern.  William  is  the  youngest  of  the  group,  but  the 
oldest-fashioned  Friend,  still  clinging  very  closely  to 
the  old  doctrines  and  the  old  ritual  of  silent  sim 
plicity,  and  wearing  the  straight-cut,  collarless  coat, 
158 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

above  which  his  youthful  face  looks  strangely  ascetic 
and  serene.  I  can  imagine  him  taking  joyfully  any 
amount  of  persecution  for  his  faith,  in  the  ancient 
days;  but  in  these  tolerant  modern  times,  he  has  the 
air  of  waiting  very  tranquilly  and  with  good  humour 
for  the  world  to  see  that  the  old  ways  are  the  best, 
and  to  come  round  to  them  again. 

Walter  and  Arthur  are  Young  Quakers,  men  of 
their  time,  diligent  in  business,  fond  of  music  and 
poetry,  loyal  to  the  society  of  their  fathers,  but  more 
than  willing  to  see  its  outward  manners  and  cus 
toms,  and  even  some  of  its  ways  of  teaching,  quietly 
modified  to  meet  the  needs  and  conditions  of  the 
present.  In  appearance  you  could  hardly  tell  them 
from  the  world's  people;  yet  I  perceive  that  in 
wardly  the  meeting-house  has  made  its  indelible 
mark  upon  them  in  a  certain  poise  of  mind  and  re 
straint  of  temper,  a  sweet  assurance  of  unseen  things, 
and  a  mind  expectant  of  spiritual  visitations. 

Master  Thomas,  the  leader  of  our  expedition,  is  a 

veteran  school-teacher,  in  one  of  the  largest  and  most 

successful  of  the  Friends'  boarding-schools.     To  him 

I  think  there  is  neither  old  nor  new  in  doctrine; 

159 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

there  is  only  the  truth,  and  the  only  way  to  be  sure 
of  it  is  by  living.  He  is  a  fervent  instructor,  to  whom 
an  indifferent  scholar  is  a  fascinating  problem,  and 
a  pupil  who  "cannot  understand  mathematics"  offers 
a  new  adventure.  But  part  of  his  instruction,  and 
the  part  to  which  he  gives  himself  most  ardently,  is 
the  knowledge  and  love  of  the  great  out-of-doors. 
Every  summer  he  runs  a  guest-camp  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  and  in  the  fall  he  gives  a  big  camp-supper  for 
the  old  pupils  of  his  school,  who  come  back  by  the 
hundred  to  renew  their  comradeship  with  "Master 
Thomas."  It  is  good  to  have  an  academic  title  like 
that.  Arthur  and  William  and  Walter  are  among 
his  old  boys,  and  they  still  call  him  by  that  name. 
But  it  is  partly  because  he  has  also  been  their  mas 
ter  in  fire-making,  and  tent-pitching,  and  cooking, 
and  canoe-building,  and  other  useful  arts  which  are 
not  in  the  curriculum  of  book-learning. 

Here,  then,  I  have  sketched  the  friends  who  sat 
with  me  before  the  glowing  logs  on  that  cool,  starry 
night,  within  a  few  miles  of  the  railroad  and  not  far 
away  from  the  roaring  town,  yet  infinitely  deep  in 
the  quietude  of  nature's  heart.  Of  the  talk  I  can 
160 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

remember  little,  except  that  it  was  free  and  friendly, 
natural  and  good.  But  one  or  two  stories  that  they 
told  me  of  a  famous  old  Philadelphia  Quaker,  Nicho 
las  Wain,  have  stuck  in  my  memory. 

His  piety  was  tempered  with  a  strong  sense  of  hu 
mour,  and  on  one  occasion  when  he  was  visiting  a 
despondent  sister,  he  was  much  put  out  by  her 
plaintive  assertions  that  she  was  going  to  die.  "I 
have  no  doubt,"  said  he  finally,  "but  that  thou  will; 
and  when  thou  gets  to  heaven  give  my  love  to  the 
Apostle  Paul,  and  tell  him  I  wish  he  would  come 
back  to  earth  and  explain  some  of  the  hard  things  in 
his  epistles."  At  another  time  he  overtook  a  young 
woman  Friend  in  worldly  dress,  upon  which  he  re 
marked,  "Satin  without,  and  Satan  within."  But 
this  time  he  got  as  good  as  he  gave,  for  the  young 
woman  added,  "And  old  Nick  behind!"  When  it 
was  the  fashion  to  wear  a  number  of  capes,  one 
above  another,  on  a  great-coat,  Nicholas  met  a  young 
acquaintance  dressed  in  the  mode.  Taking  hold  of 
one  of  the  capes,  the  old  Quaker  asked  innocently 
what  it  was.  "That  is  Cape  Hatteras,"  said  the 
pert  youth.  "And  this?"  said  Nicholas,  touching 
161 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

another.  "Oh,  that  is  Cape  Henlopen,"  was  the 
answer.  "Then,  I  suppose,"  said  Nicholas  gravely, 
pointing  to  the  young  man's  head,  "this  must  be  the 
lighthouse."  I  think  that  Charles  Lamb,  despite 
his  imperfect  sympathy  with  Quakers,  would  have 
liked  this  turn  to  the  conversation. 

Bedtime  comes  at  last,  even  when  you  are  lodg 
ing  at  the  Sign  of  the  Beautiful  Star.  There  were 
a  few  quiet  words  read  from  a  peace-giving  book, 
and  a  few  minutes  of  silent  thought  in  fellowship, 
and  then  each  man  pulled  his  blanket  round  him 
and  slept  as  if  there  were  no  troubles  in  the 
world. 

Certainly  there  were  none  waiting  for  us  in  the 
morning;  for  the  day  rose  fresh  and  fair,  and  we 
had  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  it.  After  fishing  for  an 
hour  or  two,  to  supply  our  larder,  we  paddled  down 
the  pond,  which  presently  widened  into  quite  a  lake, 
ending  in  a  long,  low  dam  with  trees  growing  all 
across  it.  Here  was  the  forgotten  village  of  Water- 
mouth,  founded  before  the  Revolution,  and  once  the 
seat  of  a  flourishing  iron  industry,  but  now  stranded 
between  two  railways,  six  miles  on  either  side  of  it, 
162 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

and  basking  on  the  warm  sand-hills  in  a  painless 
and  innocent  decay. 

Watermouth  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  ill  for 
tune.  But  the  timber  which  had  once  been  floated 
down  its  river  was  all  cut  and  gone;  and  the  bog-iron 
which  had  once  been  smelted  in  its  furnaces  was  all 
used  up;  and  the  forest  glass-makers  and  charcoal- 
burners  who  had  once  traded  in  its  store  had  all  dis 
appeared  ;  and  the  new  colonies  of  fruit-growers  and 
truck-farmers  from  Italy  and  Germany  did  not  like 
to  settle  quite  so  far  from  the  railway;  and  there 
was  nothing  left  for  Watermouth  but  to  sit  in  the  sun 
and  doze,  while  one  family  after  another  melted 
away,  and  house  after  house  closed  its  windows  and 
its  doors. 

The  manor-house  stood  in  spacious  grounds  slop 
ing  gently  down  to  the  southern  shore  of  the  lake, 
well  planted  with  a  variety  of  shade  trees  and  foreign 
evergreens,  but  overgrown  with  long  grass  and  strag 
gling  weeds.  Master  Thomas  and  I  landed,  and 
strolled  through  the  neglected  lawn  toward  the  house, 
in  search  of  a  possible  opportunity  to  buy  some  fresh 
eggs.  The  long,  pillared  veranda,  with  its  French 
163 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

windows  opening  to  the  floor;  the  wide  double  door 
giving  entrance  to  a  central  hall;  a  score  of  slight 
and  indefinable  signs  told  us  that  the  mansion  had 
seen  its  days  of  comfort  and  elegance.  But  there 
were  other  signs — a  pillar  leaning  out  of  plumb,  a 
bit  of  railing  sagging  down,  a  board  loose  at  the 
corner — which  seemed  to  speak  of  the  pluperfect 
tense.  In  a  fragment  of  garden  at  one  side,  where  a 
broken  trellis  led  to  an  arbor  more  than  half  hidden 
by  vines,  we  saw  a  lady,  clad  in  black,  walking 
slowly  among  the  bewildered  roses  and  clumps  of 
hemerocallis,  stooping  now  and  then  to  pluck  a 
flower  or  tenderly  to  lift  and  put  aside  a  straggling 
branch. 

"This  is  plainly  the  mistress  of  the  house,"  said 
Master  Thomas;  "does  thee  think  that  we  could 
make  bold  to  speak  with  her  upon  the  subject  of 
fresh  eggs?" 

"I  think,"  said  I,  "that  with  thy  friendly  tact  thee 
could  speak  with  anybody  upon  any  subject." 

"But  my  coat?"  said  Master  Thomas,  for  he  had 
left  it  in  the  boat. 

"'Tis  a  warm  day,  Master  Thomas,"  I  answered, 
164 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

"and  doubtless  the  lady  will  know  that  thee  has  a 
coat,  when  she  hears  thee  speak.  But  in  any  event, 
it  is  wise  not  to  think  too  much  of  these  mundane 
things.  Let  us  go  up." 

So  we  made  our  salutations,  stated  our  names  and 
our  occupations,  and  described  the  voyage  which 
had  brought  us  to  Watermouth,  in  a  way  that  led 
naturally  to  an  explanation  of  our  present  need  and 
desire  for  fresh  eggs:  though  indeed  it  was  hardly 
necessary  to  be  explicit  on  that  point,  for  our  little 
tin  pail  betrayed  us  as  foragers.  The  lady  in  black 
received  us  with  gracious  dignity,  identified  and 
placed  us  without  difficulty  (indeed  she  knew  some 
relation  of  each  of  us),  and  gave  us  hospitable  assur 
ance  that  our  wants  in  the  matter  of  eggs  could 
easily  be  satisfied.  Meantime  we  must  come  up  to 
the  house  with  her  and  rest  ourselves. 

Rest  was  not  an  imperative  necessity  for  us  just 
then,  but  we  were  glad  to  see  the  interior  of  the  old 
mansion.  There  was  the  long  drawing-room,  with 
its  family  portraits  running  back  into  the  eighteenth 
century — one  of  them  an  admirable  painting  by 
Sully — and  the  library,  with  its  tall  book-shelves, 
165 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

now  empty,  and  engravings  and  autographs  hanging 
on  the  walls.  The  lady  in  black  was  rather  sad; 
for  her  father,  a  distinguished  publicist  and  man  of 
letters,  had  built  this  house;  and  her  grandfather,  a 
great  iron-master,  had  owned  most  of  the  land  here 
abouts;  and  the  roots  and  tendrils  of  her  memory 
were  all  entwined  about  the  place;  but  now  she  was 
dismantling  it  and  closing  it  up,  preparatory  to  going 
away,  perhaps  to  selling  it. 

By  this  time  the  tin  pail  had  come  in,  filled  with 
the  nutritious  fruit  of  the  industrious  and  faithful 
hen.  So  we  said  farewell  to  the  lady  in  black,  with 
suitable  recognition  of  her  courtesy  and  kindness, 
and  not  without  some  silent  reflections  on  the  muta 
bility  of  human  affairs.  Here  had  been  a  fine  estate, 
a  great  family,  a  prosperous  industry  firmly  estab 
lished,  now  fading  away  like  smoke.  But  I  do  not 
believe  the  lady  in  black  will  ever  disappear  entirely 
from  Watermouth  while  she  lives;  for  is  there  not 
the  old  meeting-house,  a  hundred  years  old  (with 
the  bees'  nest  in  the  weather-boarding),  for  her  to 
watch  over,  and  care  for,  and  worship  in  ? 

The  young  men  were  waiting  for  us  below  the 
166 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

dam.  Here  was  a  splendid  water-power  running 
away  almost  idle.  For  the  great  iron  forge,  with  its 
massive  stone  buildings,  standing  (if  the  local  tradi 
tion  is  correct)  on  the  site  where  the  first  American 
cannon-balls  had  been  cast  for  the  Revolutionary 
War,  and  where  that  shrewd  Rhode  Islander,  Gen. 
Nathanael  Greene,  had  invested  some  of  the  money 
he  made  in  army  contracts,  had  been  put  out  of 
business  many  years  ago  by  the  development  of 
iron-making  in  North  Jersey  and  Pennsylvania.  An 
attempt  was  made  to  turn  it  into  a  wood-pulp  fac 
tory;  but  that  had  failed  because  the  refractory 
yellow  pine  was  full  of  hard  knots  that  refused  to 
let  themselves  be  ground  into  pulp.  Now  a  feeble 
little  saw-mill  was  running  from  time  to  time  in  one 
corner  of  the  huge  edifice;  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  river  out  of  work  was  foaming  and  roaring  in 
wasteful  beauty  over  the  gates  of  the  dam. 

It  was  here,  on  the  slopes  of  the  open  fields  and 
on  the  dry  sides  of  the  long  embankment,  that  we 
saw  the  faded  remnants  of  the  beauty  with  which 
the  lupins  had  surrounded  Watermouth  a  few  days 
ago.  The  innumerable  plants  with  their  delicate 
167 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

palmate  leaves  were  still  fresh  and  vigorous;  no 
drought  can  wither  them  even  in  the  dryest  soil,  for 
their  roots  reach  down  to  the  hidden  waters.  But 
their  winged  blossoms,  with  which  a  little  while 
since  they  had  "blued  the  earth,"  as  Thoreau  says, 
were  now  almost  all  gone;  as  if  a  countless  flock  of 
blue  butterflies  had  taken  flight  and  vanished.  Only 
here  and  there  one  could  see  little  groups  of  belated 
flowers,  scraps  of  the  ccerulean  colour,  like  patches  of 
deep-blue  sky  seen  through  the  rents  in  a  drifting 
veil  of  clouds. 

But  the  river  called  us  away  from  the  remem 
brance  of  the  lupins  to  follow  the  promise  of  the 
laurels.  How  charming  was  the  curve  of  that  brown, 
foam-flecked  stream,  as  it  rushed  swiftly  down, 
from  pool  to  pool,  under  the  ancient,  overhanging 
elms  and  willows  and  sycamores!  We  gave  our 
selves  to  the  current,  and  darted  swiftly  past  the 
row  of  weather-beaten  houses  on  the  left  bank,  into 
the  heart  of  the  woods  again. 

Here  the  forest  was  dense,  lofty,  overarching. 
The  tall  silver  maple,  the  black  ash,  the  river  birch, 
the  swamp  white  oak,  the  sweet  gum  and  the  sour 
168 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

gum,  and  a  score  of  other  trees  closed  around  the 
course  of  the  stream  as  it  swept  along  with  full, 
swirling  waters.  The  air  was  full  of  a  diffused, 
tranquil  green  light,  subdued  yet  joyous,  through 
which  flakes  and  beams  of  golden  sunshine  flickered 
and  sifted  downward,  as  if  they  were  falling  into 
some  strange,  ethereal  medium — something  half 
liquid  and  half  aerial,  midway  between  an  atmos 
phere  and  the  still  depths  of  a  fairy  sea. 

The  spirit  of  enchantment  was  in  the  place; 
brooding  in  the  delicate,  luminous  midday  twilight; 
hushing  the  song  of  the  strong-flowing  river  to  a 
humming  murmur;  casting  a  spell  of  beautiful  im 
mobility  on  the  slender  flower-stalks  and  fern-fronds 
and  trailing  shrubberies  of  the  undergrowth,  while 
the  young  leaves  of  the  tree-tops,  far  overhead,  were 
quivering  and  dancing  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze. 
Here  Oberon  and  Titania  might  sleep  beneath  a 
bower  of  motionless  royal  Osmunda.  Here  Puck 
might  have  a  noon-tide  council  with  Peaseblossom, 
Cobweb,  Moth,  and  Mustardseed,  holding  forth  to 
them  in  whispers,  beneath  the  green  and  purple 
sounding-board  of  a  Jack-in-the-Pulpit.  Here,  even 
169 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

in  this  age  of  reason,  the  mystery  of  nature  wove  its 
magic  round  the  curious  mind  of  man, 

"  Annihilating  all  that's  made, 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade." 

Do  you  remember  how  old  Andrew  Marvell  goes  on 
from  those  two  lovely  lines,  in  his  poem  ? 

"  Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light." 

There  were  many  beautiful  shrubs  and  bushes 
coming  into  bloom  around  us  as  we  drifted  down 
the  stream.  Two  of  the  fairest  bore  the  names  of 
nymphs.  One  was  called  after  Leucothoe,  "the 
white  goddess,"  and  its  curved  racemes  of  tiny 
white  bells  hanging  over  the  water  were  worthy  em 
blems  of  that  pure  queen  who  leaped  into  the  sea 
with  her  babe  in  her  arms  to  escape  from  the  frenzy 
of  Athamas.  The  other  was  named  for  Andromeda; 
170 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

and  the  great  Linnaeus,  who  gave  the  name,  thus 
describes  his  thought  in  giving  it:  "Andromeda  poli- 
folia  was  now  in  its  highest  beauty,  decorating  the 
marshy  grounds  in  a  most  agreeable  manner.  The 
flowers  are  quite  blood-red  before  they  expand,  but 
when  full-grown  the  corolla  is  of  a  flesh-colour.  As 
I  contemplated  it,  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  An 
dromeda  as  described  by  the  poets;  and  the  more  I 
meditated  upon  their  descriptions,  the  more  applica 
ble  they  seemed  to  the  little  plant  before  me.  An 
dromeda  is  represented  by  them  as  a  virgin  of  most 
exquisite  and  unrivalled  charms.  .  .  .  This 
plant  is  always  fixed  on  some  little  turfy  hillock  in 
the  midst  of  the  swamps,  as  Andromeda  herself  was 
chained  to  the  rock  in  the  sea,  which  bathed  her  feet 
as  the  fresh  water  does  the  roots  of  the  plant.  Drag 
ons  and  venomous  serpents  surrounded  her,  as  toads 
and  other  reptiles  frequent  the  abode  of  her  vegetable 
resembler.  As  the  distressed  virgin  cast  down  her 
face  through  excessive  affliction,  so  does  this  rosy 
coloured  flower  hang  its  head.  ...  At  length 
comes  Perseus  in  the  shape  of  summer,  dries  up  the 
surrounding  water  and  destroys  the  monsters." 
171 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

But  more  lovely  than  any  of  the  shrubs  along  the 
river  was  that  small  tree  known  as  the  sweet  bay  or 
the  swamp  laurel.  Of  course  it  is  not  a  laurel  at 
all,  but  a  magnolia  (Magnolia  glauca),  and  its 
glistening  leaves,  dark  green  above,  silvery  beneath, 
are  set  around  the  large,  solitary  flowers  at  the  ends 
of  the  branches,  like  backgrounds  of  malachite,  to 
bring  out  the  perfection  of  a  blossom  carved  in  fresh 
ivory.  What  creamy  petals  are  these,  so  thick,  so 
tenderly  curved  around  the  cone-like  heart  of  the 
flower's  fertility!  They  are  warm  within,  so  that 
your  finger  can  feel  the  soft  glow  in  the  centre  of  the 
blossoms.  But  it  is  not  for  you  to  penetrate  into  the 
secret  of  their  love  mystery.  Leave  that  to  the 
downy  bee,  the  soft- winged  moth,  the  flying  beetle, 
who,  seeking  their  own  pleasure,  carry  the  life- 
bestowing  pollen  from  flower  to  flower.  Your  heavy 
hand  would  bruise  the  soft  flesh  and  discolor  its 
purity.  Be  content  to  feast  your  eyes  upon  its 
beauty,  and  breathe  its  wonderful  fragrance,  floating 
on  the  air  like  the  breath  of  love  in  the  south  and 
wild  summer. 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  after  passing 
172 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

through  miles  of  enchanted  forest,  unbroken  by  sign 
of  human  habitation,  we 

"  Came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon." 

Low-rolling  ridges  of  gravel,  clothed  with  pine  and 
oak,  came  down  along  the  river.  The  bank  on  the 
right  rose  higher,  and,  at  a  sharp  angle  in  the  stream, 
lifted  itself  into  a  bluff-like  point.  Opposite  was  the 
serpentine  course  of  the  Dead  River,  coiling  through 
an  open  marsh-meadow.  Below  the  junction  of  the 
two  streams  our  own  river  flowed  swiftly,  through  a 
straight  reach,  to  the  mouth  of  the  still  lagoon  where 
Mare  Run  came  in. 

Here  we  made  our  second  camp,  on  the  point, 
among  the  pines  and  the  hollies.  For  here,  at  last, 
we  were  in  the  heart  of  the  region  of  laurels,  which 
we  had  come  to  see.  All  along  the  river  we  had 
found  some  of  them,  just  beginning  to  open  their 
flowers,  here  and  there.  But  above  and  below  the 
mouth  of  the  Dead  River  the  banks  and  ridges, 
under  the  high  shadow  of  the  pines,  were  crowded 
with  shining  clumps  of  the  Kalmia  latifolia,  and 
173 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

something  in  the  soil  and  exposure,  or  perhaps  even 
the  single  day  of  warm  sunshine  that  had  passed 
since  we  began  our  voyage,  had  brought  them  al 
ready  into  the  young  flood  of  bloom. 

I  have  seen  the  flame  azaleas  at  their  bright  hour 
of  consummation  in  the  hill  country  of  central  Geor 
gia — lakes  of  tranquil  and  splendid  fire  spreading 
far  away  through  the  rough-barked  colonnades  of 
the  pineries.  I  have  seen  the  thickets  of  great  rhodo 
dendrons  on  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania  in  coro 
nation  week,  when  the  magic  of  June  covered  their 
rich  robes  of  darkest  green  with  countless  sceptres, 
crowns,  and  globes  of  white  bloom  divinely  tinged 
with  rose:  superb,  opulent,  imperial  flowers.  I  have 
seen  the  Magnolia  Gardens  near  Charleston  when 
their  Arabian  Nights'  dream  of  colour  was  unfold 
ing  beneath  the  dark  cypresses  and  moss-bannered 
live-oaks.  I  have  seen  the  tulip  and  hyacinth  beds 
of  Holland  rolled  like  a  gorgeous  carpet  on  the 
meadows  beneath  the  feet  of  Spring;  and  the  royal 
gardens  of  Kew  in  the  month  when  the  rose  is  queen 
of  all  the  flowers;  but  never  have  I  seen  an  efflores 
cence  more  lovely,  more  satisfying  to  the  eye,  than 
174 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

that  of  the  high  laurel  along  the  shores  of  the  un 
known  little  river  in  South  Jersey. 

Cool,  pure,  and  virginal  in  their  beauty,  the  in 
numerable  clusters  of  pink  and  white  blossoms 
thronged  the  avenues  of  the  pine  woods,  and  ranged 
themselves  along  the  hillsides  and  sloping  banks,  and 
trooped  down  by  cape  and  promontory  to  reflect 
their  young  loveliness  in  the  flowing  stream.  It  was 
as  if  some  quiet  and  shadowy  region  of  solitude  had 
been  suddenly  invaded  by  companies  of  maidens 
attired  for  a  holiday  and  joyously  confident  of  their 
simple  charms.  The  dim  woodland  was  illumined 
with  the  blush  of  conscious  pleasure. 

Seen  at  a  distance  the  flower  clusters  look  like  big 
hemispheres  of  flushed  snow.  But  examine  them 
closely  and  you  see  that  each  of  the  rounded  umbels 
is  compounded  of  many  separate  blossoms — shallow, 
half -translucent  cups  poised  on  slender  stems  of  pale 
green.  The  cup  is  white,  tinted  more  or  less  deeply 
with  rose-pink,  the  colour  brightest  along  the  rim  and 
on  the  outside.  The  edge  is  scalloped  into  five 
points,  and  on  the  outer  surface  there  are  ten  tiny 
projections  around  the  middle  of  the  cup.  Looking 
175 


BETWEEN  THE  LUPIN  AND  THE  LAUREL 

within,  you  find  that  each  of  these  is  a  little  red 
hollow  made  to  receive  the  crimson  tip  of  a  curving 
anther,  cunningly  bent  like  a  spring,  so  that  the 
least  touch  may  loosen  it  and  scatter  the  pollen. 
There  is  no  flower  in  the  world  more  exquisitely 
fashioned  than  this.  It  is  the  emblem  of  a  rustic 
maid  in  the  sweet  prime  of  her  morning. 

We  were  well  content  with  our  day's  voyage  and 
our  parting  camp  on  the  river.  We  had  done  no 
harm;  no  accident  had  befallen  us;  we  had  seen 
many  lovely  things  and  heard  music  from  warbler 
and  vireo,  thrush  and  wren,  all  day  long.  Even 
now  a  wood  thrush  closed  his  last  descant  in  flute- 
like  notes  across  the  river.  Night  began  silently  to 
weave  her  dusky  veil  upon  the  vast  loom  of  the  for 
est.  The  pink  glow  had  gone  from  the  flower-masses 
around  us;  whitely  they  glimmered  through  the  deep 
ening  shadows,  and  stood  like  gentle  ghosts  against 
the  dark.  To-morrow  we  must  paddle  down  to  the 
village  where  the  railroad  crosses  the  river,  and  hurry 
back  to  civilization  and  work.  But  to-night  we  were 
still  very  far  off;  and  we  should  sleep  at  the  foot  of  a 
pine-tree,  beneath  the  stars,  among  the  virgin  laurels. 
176 


LITTLE   RED   TOM 


LITTLE   RED   TOM 

*  MY  Uncle  Peter  was  much  interested  in  the  war 
which  broke  out,  not  long  ago,  among  the  professional 
nature- writers.  He  said  that  it  was  a  civil  war,  and 
therefore  a  philosopher  was  bound  to  be  regardful  of  it, 
because  a  civil  war  always  involved  subtle  problems  of 
psychology.  He  also  said  that  it  was  a  most  uncivil  war, 
and  that  the  picturesque  violence  of  the  language  em 
ployed  on  both  sides  was  intrinsically  noteworthy  to  a  phi 
lologist,  and  therefore  he  felt  obliged  to  follow  it  with  care. 
When  the  Chief  Magistrate  of  his  native  country  took  a 
hand  in  it,  my  Uncle  Peter  claimed  that  it  had  become  a 
subject  of  national  importance  and  that  no  true  patriot 
could  be  indifferent  to  it.  Finally  he  admitted,  in  a  mo 
ment  of  confidence,  that  the  real  reason  for  his  interest 
was  the  fact  that  so  many  of  his  friends  were  engaged  in 
the  strife,  on  both  sides,  and  were  being  badly  pummeled; 
and  that  he  would  like  to  take  some  part  in  it  himself.  I 
asked  him  what  part.  He  answered  that  he  proposed  to 
himself  the  part  of  peace-maker.  I  pointed  out  that  this 
part  is  usually  the  most  perilous  and  painful.  He  said 
that  this  should  not  deter  him  from  doing  his  duty,  and 
he  added  that  he  thought  he  could  do  it  in  such  a  way 
179 


LITTLE   RED   TOM 

that  no  one  could  tell  that  he  was  doing   it.     A  week 
later  he  brought  me  the  following  paper,  which  he  called 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LITTLE  RED  TOM :. 

A  Contribution  to  the  Fight  About  Nature-Books. 

He  was  the  youngest  of  the  family,  a  late-comer 
at  the  feast  of  life.  Yet  the  rose-garlands  on  the 
table  were  not  faded  when  he  arrived,  and  the  wel 
come  that  he  received  was  not  colder,  indeed  it  was 
probably  several  degrees  warmer,  because  he  was  so 
tardy,  so  young,  so  tiny. 

There  was  room  for  him  in  the  household  circle; 
joyous  affection  and  merry  murmurs  of  contentment 
greeted  his  coming.  His  older  brothers  never 
breathed  a  word  of  jealousy  or  unkindness  toward 
him.  He  grew  peacefully  under  the  shelter  of 
mother-love;  and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
foresee,  in  the  rosy  promise  of  his  youth,  the  crimson 
tragedy  in  which  his  life  ended. 

How  dull,  how  insensible  to  such  things,  most 
men  and  women  are!  They  go  on  their  way,  busily 
and  happily,  doing  their  work,  seeking  their  daily 
180 


LITTLE    RED    TOM 

food,  enjoying  their  human  pleasures,  and  never 
troubling  themselves  about  the  hidden  and  inarticu 
late  sorrows  of  the  universe.  The  hunter  hunts,  and 
the  fisher  fishes,  with  inconsiderate  glee.  A  man 
kills  a  troublesome  insect,  he  eats  a  juicy  berry  or  a 
succulent  oyster,  without  thinking  of  what  his  vic 
tims  must  feel. 

But  there  are  some  tender  and  sensitive  souls  who 
are  too  fine  for  these  callous  joys.  They  no  longer 
imagine  that  human  emotions  are  confined  to  man. 
They  reflect  that  every  plant  and  every  animal  is 
doomed  to  die  in  some  way  which  the  average  man 
would  regard  as  distinctly  unpleasant.  To  them  the 
sight  of  a  chicken-house  is  full  of  sorrowful  sugges 
tion,  and  a  walk  through  a  vegetable  garden  is  like 
a  funeral  procession.  They  meditate  upon  the  tragic 
side  of  all  existence;  and  to  them  there  will  be  nothing 
strange  in  this  story  of  the  tragedy  of  Little  Red  Tom. 

You  have  guessed  that  he  was  called  "red"  on 
account  of  his  colour.  It  was  a  family  trait.  All 
his  brothers  had  it;  and  strange  to  say  they  were 
proud  of  it. 

Most  people  are  so  foolish  that  they  speak  with 
181 


LITTLE   RED   TOM 

ridicule,  or  even  with  contempt  of  this  colour,  when 
it  is  personally  evolved.  Have  you  ever  asked  your 
self  why  it  is  that  the  cold  world  alludes  derisively 
to  a  "red-headed  boy,"  or  a  "red-headed  girl"? 
The  language  is  different  when  the  locks  are  of 
another  hue.  Then  it  is  a  "black-haired  boy,"  or  a 
"golden-haired  girl."  Is  not  the  very  word  "red 
headed,"  with  its  implied  slur  upon  an  innocent  and 
gorgeous  colour,  an  unconscious  evidence  of  the  un 
reasonable  prejudice  and  hard  insensibility  of  the 
human  race? 

Not  so  the  family  of  Tom.  The  redder  they  grew 
the  happier  they  were,  and  the  more  pride  their 
mother  took  in  them.  But  she  herself  was  green. 
And  so  was  little  Tom,  like  all  his  brothers,  when  he 
made  his  first  appearance  in  the  world — green — • 
very  green. 

Nestled  against  his  mother's  side,  sheltered  by  her 
embracing  arms,  safe  and  happy  in  the  quietude  of 
her  maternal  care,  he  must  have  looked  out  upon 
the  passing  show  with  wonder  and  pleasure,  while 
she  instilled  into  him  the  lessons  of  wisdom  and  the 
warnings  of  destiny. 

182 


LITTLE    RED    TOM 

"  Grow,  my  little  one,"  we  can  imagine  her  saying 
to  him,  in  her  mysterious  wordless  language,  "your 
first  duty  is  to  grow.  Look  at  your  brothers,  how 
big  and  round  and  fat  they  are!  I  can  hardly  lift 
them.  They  did  what  I  told  them,  and  see  what  they 
have  become.  All  by  growing!  Simple  process! 
Even  a  babe  can  understand  it.  Grow,  my  Tommy- 
kin,  grow!  But  don't  try  to  grow  red;  first,  you 
must  grow  big." 

It  is  quite  sure,  and  evident  to  every  inaginative 
observer  of  nature,  that  Tommy's  mother  must  have 
told  him  something  like  this,  for  this  is  precisely 
what  he  did — obedient,  docile,  clever  little  creature! 
How  else  could  he  have  learned  it,  if  she  had  not 
taught  him?  Who  can  trace  the  subtle  avenues  by 
which  intelligence  is  communicated  from  the  old  to 
the  young,  the  treasured  lore  of  the  ages  handed 
down  from  one  generation  to  another?  But  when 
we  see  the  result,  when  the  little  one  begins  to  do 
what  its  parents  and  grandparents  have  done,  is  it 
not  evident  that  the  teaching  must  have  been  given, 
though  in  some  way  beyond  our  ken  ?  If  Tommy's 
mother  had  not  taught  him,  there  is  at  least  an  even 
183 


LITTLE    RED    TOM 

chance  that  he  would  have  tried  to  grow  red  before 
he  grew  big.  But  he  laid  her  lesson  to  heart,  and 
day  by  day,  week  by  week,  his  rotundity  expanded, 
while  his  verdancy  remained. 

It  was  a  very  beautiful  life  that  they  lived  in  the 
garden;  and  if  the  thoughts  and  feelings  that  un 
folded  there  could  be  known,  perhaps  they  would 
seem  even  more  wonderful  than  the  things  which 
the  old  German  gardener  cultivated.  Away  at  one 
end  were  the  beds  of  old-fashioned  flowers:  holly 
hocks  and  phlox  and  stocks,  coreopsis  and  calliopsis, 
calendula  and  campanula,  fox-gloves  and  monks- 
hoods  and  lady-slippers.  At  the  other  end  were  the 
strawberry-bed  and  the  asparagus-bed.  In  between, 
there  were  long  rows  of  all  kinds  of  vegetables  and 
small  fruits  and  fragrant  herbs. 

Who  can  tell  what  ideas  and  emotions  were  stir 
ring  in  those  placid  companies  of  leguminous  com 
rades  ?  What  aspirations  toward  a  loftier  life  in  the 
climbing  beans  ?  What  high  spirits  in  the  corn  ? 
What  light  and  airy  dreams  on  the  asparagus-bed  ? 
What  philosophy  among  the  sage  ?  Imagine  what 
great  schemes  were  hatching  among  the  egg-plants, 
184 


LITTLE   RED    TOM 

and  what  hot  feelings  stung  the  peppers  when  the 
raspberries  crowded  them! 

Tommy,  from  his  central  place  in  the  garden  must 
have  felt  the  agitation  of  this  mimic  world  around 
him.  Many  a  time,  no  doubt,  he  was  tempted  to 
give  himself  up  to  one  or  another  of  the  contiguous 
influences,  and  throw  himself  into  the  sodal  tide  for 
"one  glorious  hour  of  crowded  life."  But  his 
mother  always  held  him  back. 

"No,  my  Tominykin,  stay  with  me.  It  is  not  for 
you  to  climb  a  pole  like  a  bean  or  wave  in  the  wind 
like  an  asparagus  stalk,  or  rasp  your  neighbours  like 
a  raspberry.  Be  modest,  be  natural,  be  true  to 
yourself.  Stay  with  me  and  grow  fat." 

When  the  sunshine  of  the  long  July  days  flooded 
the  garden,  glistening  on  the  silken  leaves  of  the  corn, 
wilting  the  potato-blossoms,  unfolding  the  bright 
yellow  flowers  of  the  okra  and  the  melon,  Tom 
would  fain  have  pushed  himself  out  into  the  full  tide 
of  light  and  heat.  But  his  mother  bent  tenderly 
over  him. 

"Not  yet,  my  child;  it  is  not  time  for  you  to  bear 
the  heat  of  the  day.  A  little  shade  is  good  for  you. 
185 


LITTLE    RED    TOM 

Let  me  cover  you.  It  is  too  soon  for  you  to  be  sun 
burned." 

When  the  plumping  afternoon  showers  came  down, 
refreshing  leaf  and  root  of  every  plant,  Tom  shrank 
from  the  precipitate  inundation. 

"Mother,  I'm  all  wet.  I  want  to  come  in  out  of 
the  rain." 

But  the  mother  knew  what  was  good  for  him.  So 
she  held  him  out  bravely  while  the  streaming  drops 
washed  him;  and  she  taught  him  how  to  draw  in 
the  moisture  which  she  gathered  for  his  nourishment. 

In  late  August  a  change  began  to  come  over  his 
complexion.  His  verdant  brilliancy  was  "sicklied 
o'er  with  a  pale  cast  of  thought,"  whitish,  yellowish, 
nondescript.  A  foolish  human  mother  would  have 
been  alarmed  and  would  have  hurried  to  the  medi 
cine  closet  for  a  remedy  for  biliousness.  Not  so 
Tom's  wise  parent.  She  knew  that  the  time  had 
come  for  him  to  grow  red.  She  let  him  have  his 
own  way  now  about  being  out  in  the  sunshine.  She 
even  thrust  him  gently  forth  into  the  full  light,  with 
drawing  the  shelter  that  she  had  cast  around  him. 
Slowly,  gradually,  but  surely  the  bright  crimson  hue 
186 


LITTLE    RED    TOM 

spread  over  him,  until  the  illumination  was  com 
plete,  and  the  mother  felt  that  he  was  the  most 
beautiful  of  her  children — not  the  largest,  but 
round  and  plump  and  firm  and  glowing  red  as  a 
ruby. 

Then  the  mother-heart  knew  that  the  perils  of  life 
were  near  at  hand  for  Little  Red  Tom.  Many  of 
his  brothers  had  already  been  torn  from  her  by  the 
cruel  hand  of  fate  and  had  disappeared  into  the 
unknown. 

"Where  have  they  gone  to?"  wondered  Tom. 
But  his  mother  could  not  tell  him.  All  that  she 
could  do  was  to  warn  him  of  the  unseen  dangers  that 
surrounded  him,  and  prepare  him  to  meet  them. 

"Listen,  my  child,  and  do  as  I  tell  you.  When 
you  hear  a  step  on  the  garden  path,  that  means 
danger;  and  when  a  thing  with  wings  flies  around 
me  and  comes  near  to  you,  that  means  danger  too. 
But  I  will  teach  you  how  to  avoid  it.  I  will  give 
you  three  signs. 

"The  first  sign  is  a  rustling  noise  that  I  will  make 
when  a  bird  comes  near  to  you.  That  means  droop. 
Let  yourself  down  behind  the  wire  netting  that  I 
187 


LITTLE   RED   TOM 

lean  on,  and  then  the  bird  will  be  afraid  to  come 
close  enough  to  peck  at  you.  The  second  sign  is  a 
trembling  that  you  will  feel  in  my  arms  when  the 
gardener  comes  along  the  walk.  That  means  snug 
gle.  Hide  yourself  as  close  to  me  as  you  can. 
The  third  sign — well,  I  will  tell  you  the  third  sign 
to-morrow  evening,  for  now  I  am  tired." 

In  the  early  morning  of  a  bright  September  day, 
while  the  dew  was  still  heavy  on  the  leaves  and  the 
grass,  and  the  gossamer  cobwebs  glistened  with 
little  diamonds,  a  hungry  robin  flew  into  the  garden, 
and  Tom  heard  the  signal  "Droop!"  So  he  let 
himself  down  behind  the  woven  wire,  and  the  robin 
put  his  head  on  one  side  and  looked  at  Tom  greedily, 
and  flew  on  to  find  a  breakfast  elsewhere. 

A  little  before  noon,  when  the  sun  was  shining 
broadly  and  the  silken  tassels  of  the  corn  were 
shrivelling  up  into  make-believe  tobacco  for  bad  little 
boys  to  smoke,  there  was  a  heavy  step  on  the  garden 
walk,  and  Tom  felt  the  signal  "  Snuggle  !  "  Then  he 
hugged  as  close  as  he  could  to  his  mother's  side,  and 
the  gardener  with  his  sharp  knife  cut  off  all  Tom's 
surviving  brothers  and  put  them  into  a  box  full  of 
188 


LITTLE   RED   TOM 

vegetables.  But  he  did  not  see  Tom,  hidden  close 
and  safe. 

How  glad  the  mother  must  have  been,  and  how 
much  Tom  must  have  loved  her  as  he  remembered 
all  her  wise  lessons!  It  was  a  long  beautiful  after 
noon  that  they  spent  together,  filled  with  pleasant 
reminiscences,  touched  by  no  shadow  of  gloom,  no 
dream  of  parting.  A  golden  afternoon — the  last! 

Just  before  sunset,  a  fair  creature,  clothed  in 
white,  came  into  the  garden.  She  moved  for  a  while 
among  the  flowers,  her  yellow  hair  gleaming  in  the 
low  rays  of  the  sun,  her  eyes  bluer  than  forget-me- 
nots.  Who  could  think  that  such  a  creature  could 
be  cruel  or  heartless  ?  Who  could  dream  that  she 
would  pursue  her  pleasure  at  the  cost  of  pain  to  the 
innocent  ?  Who  could  imagine  that  she  would  take 
life  to  feed  her  own  ? 

Gently  and  daintily  she  came  down  the  garden 
walk,  past  the  raspberry  patch,  past  the  tall  rows 
of  corn,  past  the  egg-plants  and  the  peppers,  with 
steps  so  light  that  the  ground  hardly  felt  them, 
with  bright  eyes  glancing  from  side  to  side — yes, 
with  all  these,  and  also  with  a  remorseless  purpose 
189 


LITTLE   RED   TOM 

in  her  heart  and  a  basket  half  full  of  cut  flowers  on 
her  arm. 

No  signal  to  droop  or  snuggle  came  to  Tom.  The 
third  signal — ah,  that  he  had  not  yet  learned!  So 
he  basked  his  rosy  sides  in  the  sunlight  as  the  lovely 
apparition  drew  near  to  him.  She  looked  at  him 
with  delight.  She  put  out  her  delicate  hand  to  em 
brace  him.  Then,  without  a  tremor,  she  tore  him 
ruthlessly  from  his  mother's  grasp,  from  the  home 
that  he  loved,  and  dropped  him  into  her  basket. 

"Oh,  you  little  red  beauty!"  she  cried.  "You 
are  just  what  I  wanted  to  fill  up  my  tomato  salad." 

That  night,  as  she  sat  at  supper,  with  her  father 
and  mother  and  brother  and  sisters,  she  was  smiling 
and  serene,  for  the  table  was  well  furnished,  and  the 
feast  was  merry.  There  was  white  bread  that  had 
been  ground  from  thousands  of  innocent  blades  of 
wheat,  once  waving  in  the  sunlight,  and  a  juicy  fish 
that  had  been  lured  and  unwillingly  drawn  from  the 
crystal  waters.  There  was  a  brace  of  grouse  that 
had  been  snatched  away  from  their  feeding-grounds 
among  the  spicy  berries  in  the  woods.  And  there 
was  poor  Little  Red  Tom,  in  the  centre  of  the  salad, 
190 


LITTLE   RED   TOM 

surrounded  by  crisp  lettuce  leaves  and  dressed  to 
the  queen's  taste. 

Are  there  not  some  who  would  have  shed  tears  at 
that  sight,  and  lamented  even  while  they  ate  ?  But 
do  you  suppose  the  young  girl  was  one  of  that  kind  ? 
Do  you  imagine  that  she  thought  she  had  played  a 
part  in  a  tragedy  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  She  was  simply 
grateful  that  her  salad  was  so  good,  and  glad  that 
the  others  liked  it. 

Moral 

Reader,  if  you  would  not  be  like  this  young  girl,  you 
must  read  and  believe * 

*Note:  I  regret  to  state  that  my  Uncle  Peter's"  manuscript 
broke  off  at  this  point. 


191 


SILVERHORNS 


SILVERHORNS 

THE  railway  station  of  Bathurst,  New  Brunswick, 
did  not  look  particularly  merry  at  two  o'clock  of  a 
late  September  morning.  There  was  an  easterly 
haar  driving  in  from  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs  and  the 
darkness  was  so  saturated  with  chilly  moisture  that 
an  honest  downpour  of  rain  would  have  been  a 
relief.  Two  or  three  depressed  and  somnolent 
travellers  yawned  in  the  waiting-room,  which 
smelled  horribly  of  smoky  lamps.  The  telegraph 
instrument  in  the  ticket-office  clicked  spasmodically 
for  a  minute,  and  then  relapsed  into  a  gloomy  silence. 
The  imperturbable  station-master  was  tipped  back 
against  the  wall  in  a  wooden  armchair,  with  his 
feet  on  the  table,  and  his  mind  sunk  in  an  old  Christ 
mas  number  of  The  Cowboy  Magazine  The  ex 
press-agent,  in  the  baggage-room,  was  going  over  his 
last  week's  way-bills  and  accounts  by  the  light  of  a 
lantern,  trying  to  locate  an  error,  and  sighing  pro 
fanely  to  himself  as  he  failed  to  find  it.  A  wooden 
trunk  tied  with  rope,  a  couple  of  dingy  canvas  bags, 
195 


SILVERHORNS 

a  long  box  marked  "Fresh  Fish!  Rush!"  and  two 
large  leather  portmanteaus  with  brass  fittings  were 
piled  on  the  luggage-truck  at  the  far  end  of  the 
platform;  and  beside  the  door  of  the  waiting-room, 
sheltered  by  the  overhanging  eaves,  was  a  neat 
travelling  bag,  with  a  gun-case  and  a  rod-case  lean 
ing  against  the  wall.  The  wet  rails  glittered  dimly 
northward  and  southward  away  into  the  night.  A 
few  blurred  lights  glimmered  from  the  village  across 
the  bridge. 

Dudley  Hemenway  had  observed  all  these  feat 
ures  of  the  landscape  with  silent  dissatisfaction,  as 
he  smoked  steadily  up  and  down  the  platform, 
waiting  for  the  Maritime  Express.  It  is  usually 
irritating  to  arrive  at  the  station  on  time  for  a  train 
on  the  Intercolonial  Railway.  The  arrangement  is 
seldom  mutual;  and  sometimes  yesterday's  train 
does  not  come  along  until  to-morrow  afternoon. 
Moreover,  Hemenway  was  inwardly  discontented 
with  the  fact  that  he  was  coming  out  of  the  woods 
instead  of  going  in.  "Coming  out"  always  made 
him  a  little  unhappy,  whether  his  expedition  had 
been  successful  or  not.  He  did  not  like  the  thought 
196 


SILVERHORNS 

that  it  was  all  over;  and  he  had  the  very  bad 
habit,  at  such  times,  of  looking  ahead  and  com 
puting  the  slowly  lessening  number  of  chances  that 
were  left  to  him. 

"Sixty  odd  years — I  may  live  to  be  that  old  and 
keep  my  shooting  sight,"  he  said  to  himself.  "That 
would  give  me  a  couple  of  dozen  more  camping 
trips.  It's  a  short  allowance.  I  wonder  if  any  of 
them  will  be  more  lucky  than  this  one.  This  makes 
the  seventh  year  I've  tried  to  get  a  moose;  and  the 
odd  trick  has  gone  against  me  every  time." 

He  tossed  away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  which  made 
a  little  trail  of  sparks  as  it  rolled  along  the  sopping 
platform,  and  turned  to  look  in  through  the  window 
of  the  ticket-office.  Something  in  the  agent's  atti 
tude  of  literary  absorption  aggravated  him.  He 
went  round  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Don't  you  know  or  care  when  this  train  is  com- 
ing?" 

"Nope,"  said  the  man  placidly. 

"Well,  when?  What's  the  matter  with  her? 
When  is  she  due?" 

"Doo  twenty  minits  ago,"  said  the  man.  "Forty 
197 


SILVERHORNS 

minits  late  down  to  Noocastle.  Git  here  quatter  to 
three,  ef  nothin'  more  happens." 

"  But  what  has  happened  already  ?  What's  wrong 
with  the  beastly  old  road,  anyhow?" 

"Freight-car  skipped  the  track,"  said  the  man  "up 
to  Charlo.  Everythin'  hung  up  an'  kinder  goin'  slow 
till  they  git  the  line  clear.  Dunno  nothin'  more." 

With  this  conclusive  statement  the  agent  seemed 
to  disclaim  all  responsibility  for  the  future  of  im 
patient  travellers,  and  dropped  his  mind  back  into 
the  magazine  again.  Hemenway  lit  another  cigar 
and  went  into  the  baggage-room  to  smoke  with  the 
expressman.  It  was  nearly  three  o'clock  when  they 
heard  the  far-off  shriek  of  the  whistle  sounding  up 
from  the  south;  then,  after  an  interval,  the  puffing 
of  the  engine  on  the  up-grade;  then  the  faint  ringing 
of  the  rails,  the  increasing  clatter  of  the  train,  and 
the  blazing  headlight  of  the  locomotive  swept  slowly 
through  the  darkness,  past  the  platform.  The  en 
gineer  was  leaning  on  one  arm.  with  his  head  out  of 
the  cab-window,  and  as  he  passed  he  nodded  and 
waved  his  hand  to  Hemenway.  The  conductor  also 
nodded  and  hurried  into  the  ticket-office,  where  the 
198 


SILVERHORNS 

tick-tack  of  a  conversation  by  telegraph  was  soon 
under  way.  The  black  porter  of  the  Pullman  car 
was  looking  out  from  the  vestibule,  and  when  he 
saw  Hemenway  his  sleepy  face  broadened  into  a 
grin  reminiscent  of  many  generous  tips. 

"Howdy,  Mr.  Hennigray,"  he  cried;  "glad  to  see 
yo'  ag'in,  sah !  I  got  yo'  section  alright,  sah !  Lemme 
take  yo'  things,  sah!  Train  gwine  to  stop  hy'ehfo' 
some  time  yet,  I  reckon." 

"Well,  Charles,"  said  Hemenway,  "you  take  my 
things  and  put  them  in  the  car.  Careful  with  that 
gun  now!  The  Lord  only  knows  how  much  time 
this  train's  going  to  lose.  I'm  going  ahead  to  see 
the  engineer." 

Angus  McLeod  was  a  grizzle-bearded  Scotchman 
who  had  run  a  locomotive  on  the  Intercolonial  ever 
since  the  road  was  cut  through  the  woods  from  New 
Brunswick  to  Quebec.  Everyone  who  travelled  often 
on  that  line  knew  him,  and  all  who  knew  him  well 
enough  to  get  below  his  rough  crust,  liked  him  for 
his  big  heart. 

"Hallo,  McLeod,"  said  Hemenway  as  he  came  up 
through  the  darkness,  "is  that  you?" 
199 


SILVERHORNS 

"It's  nane  else,"  answered  the  engineer  as  he 
stepped  down  from  his  cab  and  shook  hands  warmly. 
"Hoo  are  ye,  Dud,  an'  whaur  hae  ye  been  murderin' 
the  innocent  beasties  noo  ?  Hae  ye  killt  yer  moose 
yet?  Ye've  been  chasin'  him  these  mony  years." 

"Not  much  murdering,'*  replied  Hemenway.  "I 
had  a  queer  trip  this  time — away  up  the  Nepissiguit, 
with  old  McDonald.  You  know  him,  don't  you?" 

"Fine  do  I  ken  Rob  McDonald,  an'  a  guid  mon 
he  is.  Hoo  was  it  that  ye  couldna  slaughter  stacks 
o'  moose  wi'  him  to  help  ye?  Did  ye  see  nane  at 
all?" 

"Plenty,  and  one  with  the  biggest  horns  in  the 
world !  But  that's  a  long  story,  and  there's  no  time 
to  tell  it  now." 

"Time  to  burrrn,  Dud,  nae  fear  o'  it!  'Twill  be 
an  hour  afore  the  line's  clear  to  Charlo  an'  they  lat 
us  oot  o'  this.  Come  awa'  up  into  the  cab,  mon, 
an'  tell  us  yer  tale.'  Tis  couthy  an'  warm  in  the 
cab,  an'  I'm  willin'  to  leesten  to  yer  bluidy  ad- 
vaintures." 

So  the  two  men  clambered  up  into  the  engineer's 
seat.     Hemenway   gave   McLeod   his   longest   and 
200 


SILVERHORNS 

strongest  cigar,  and  filled  his  own  briarwood  pipe. 
The  rain  was  now  pattering  gently  on  the  roof  of  the 
cab.  The  engine  hissed  and  sizzled  patiently  in 
the  darkness.  The  fragrant  smoke  curled  steadily 
from  the  glowing  tip  of  the  cigar;  but  the  pipe  went 
out  half  a  dozen  times  while  Hemenway  was  telling 
the  story  of  Silverhorns. 

"We  went  up  the  river  to  the  big  rock,  just  below 
Indian  Falls.  There  we  made  our  main  camp,  in 
tending  to  hunt  on  Forty-two  Mile  Brook.  There's 
quite  a  snarl  of  ponds  and  bogs  at  the  head  of  it, 
and  some  burned  hills  over  to  the  west,  and  it's  very 
good  moose  country. 

"But  some  other  party  had  been  there  before  us, 
and  we  saw  nothing  on  the  ponds,  except  two  cow 
moose  and  a  calf.  Coming  out  the  next  morning  we 
got  a  fine  deer  on  the  old  wood  road — a  beautiful 
head.  But  I  have  plenty  of  deer-heads  already." 

"  Bonny  creature ! "  said  McLeod.  "  An*  what  did 
ye  do  wi'  it,  when  ye  had  murdered  it  ?" 

"Ate  it,  of  course.  I  gave  the  head  to  Billy 
Boucher,  the  cook.  He  said  he  could  get  ten  dollars 
for  it.  The  next  evening  we  went  to  one  of  the 
201 


SILVERHORNS 

ponds  again,  and  Injun  Pete  tried  to  'call'  a  moose 
for  me.  But  it  was  no  good.  McDonald  was  dis 
gusted  with  Pete's  calling;  said  it  sounded  like  the 
bray  of  a  wild  ass  of  the  wilderness.  So  the  next 
day  we  gave  up  calling  and  travelled  the  woods  over 
toward  the  burned  hills. 

"In  the  afternoon  McDonald  found  an  enormous 
moose-track;  he  thought  it  looked  like  a  bull's 
track,  though  he  wasn't  quite  positive.  But  then, 
you  know,  a  Scotchman  never  likes  to  commit  him 
self,  except  about  theology  or  politics." 

"Humph!"  grunted  McLeod  in  the  darkness, 
showing  that  the  stroke  had  counted. 

"Well,  we  went  on,  following  that  track  through 
the  woods,  for  an  hour  or  two.  It  was  a  terrible 
country,  I  tell  you:  tamarack  swamps,  and  spruce 
thickets,  and  windfalls,  and  all  kinds  of  misery. 
Presently  we  came  out  on  a  bare  rock  on  the  burned 
hillside,  and  there,  across  a  ravine,  we  could  see  the 
animal  lying  down,  just  below  the  trunk  of  a  big 
dead  spruce  that  had  fallen.  The  beast's  head  and 
neck  were  hidden  by  some  bushes,  but  the  fore- 
shoulder  and  side  were  in  clear  view,  about  two 
202 


SILVERHORNS 

hundred  and  fifty  yards  away.  McDonald  seemed 
to  be  inclined  to  think  that  it  was  a  bull  and  that  I 
ought  to  shoot.  So  I  shot,  and  knocked  splinters 
out  of  the  spruce  log.  We  could  see  them  fly.  The 
animal  got  up  quickly,  and  looked  at  us  for  a  mo 
ment,  shaking  her  long  ears;  then  the  huge,  un 
mitigated  cow  vamoosed  into  the  brush.  McDonald 
remarked  that  it  was  'a  varra  fortunate  shot,  almaist 
providaintial ! '  And  so  it  was;  for  if  it  had  gone 
six  inches  lower,  and  the  news  had  gotten  out  at 
Bathurst,  it  would  have  cost  me  a  fine  of  two  hundred 
dollars." 

"Ye  did  weel,  Dud,"  puffed  McLeod;  "varra 
weel  indeed — for  the  coo!" 

"After  that,"  continued  Hemenway,  "of  course 
my  nerve  was  a  little  shaken,  and  we  went  back  to 
the  main  camp  on  the  river,  to  rest  over  Sunday. 
That  was  all  right,  wasn't  it,  Mac?" 

"Aye!"  replied  McLeod,  who  was  a  strict  member 
of  the  Presbyterian  church  at  Moncton.  "That  was 
surely  a  varra  safe  thing  to  do.  Even  a  hunter,  I'm 
thinkin',  wouldna  like  to  be  breakin'  twa  command 
ments  in  the  ane  day — the  foorth  and  the  saxth!" 
203 


SILVERHORNS 

"Perhaps  not.  It's  enough  to  break  one,  as  you 
do  once  a  fortnight  when  you  run  your  train  into 
Riviere  du  Loup  Sunday  morning.  How's  that,  you 
old  Calvinist?" 

"Dudley,  ma  son,"  said  the  engineer,  "dinna 
airgue  a  point  that  ye  canna  understond.  There's 
guid  an'  suffeecient  reasons  for  the  train.  But  ye'll 
ne'er  be  claimin'  that  moose-huntin'  is  a  wark  o* 
neecessity  or  maircy?" 

"No,  no,  of  course  not;  but  then,  you  see,  barring 
Sundays,  we  felt  that  it  was  necessary  to  do  all  we 
could  to  get  a  moose,  just  for  the  sake  of  our  repu 
tations.  Billy,  the  cook,  was  particularly  strong 
about  it.  He  said  that  an  old  woman  in  Bathurst, 
a  kind  of  fortune-teller,  had  told  him  that  he  was 
going  to  have  'la  bonne  chance'  on  this  trip.  He 
wanted  to  try  his  own  mouth  at  'calling.'  He  had 
never  really  done  it  before.  But  he  had  been  prac 
tising  all  winter  in  imitation  of  a  tame  cow  moose 
that  Johnny  Moreau  had,  and  he  thought  he  could 
make  the  sound  'b'en  bon.'  So  he  got  the  birch-bark 
horn  and  gave  us  a  sample  of  his  skill.  McDonald 
told  me  privately  that  it  was  'nae  sa  bad;  a  deal 
204 


SILVERHORNS 

better  than  Pete's  feckless  bellow.'  We  agreed  to 
leave  the  Indian  to  keep  the  camp  (after  locking  up 
the  whiskey-flask  in  my  bag),  and  take  Billy  with  us 
on  Monday  to  'call'  at  Hogan's  Pond. 

"It's  a  small  bit  of  water,  about  three-quarters  of 
a  mile  long  and  four  hundred  yards  across,  and  four 
miles  back  from  the  river.  There  is  no  trail  to  it, 
but  a  blazed  line  runs  part  of  the  way,  and  for  the 
rest  you  follow  up  the  little  brook  that  runs  out  of 
the  pond.  We  stuck  up  our  shelter  in  a  hollow  on 
the  brook,  half  a  mile  below  the  pond,  so  that  the 
smoke  of  our  fire  would  not  drift  over  the  hunting- 
ground,  and  waited  till  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
Then  we  went  up  to  the  pond,  and  took  our  position 
in  a  clump  of  birch-trees  on  the  edge  of  the  open 
meadow  that  runs  round  the  east  shore.  Just  at 
dark  Billy  began  to  call,  and  it  was  beautiful.  You 
know  how  it  goes.  Three  short  grunts,  and  then  a 
long  ooooo-aaaa-ooooh,  winding  up  with  another 
grunt!  It  sounded  lonelier  than  a  love-sick  hippo 
potamus  on  the  house-top.  It  rolled  and  echoed 
over  the  hills  as  if  it  would  wake  the  dead. 

"There  was  a  fine  moon  shining,  nearly  full,  and 
205 


SILVERHORNS 

a  few  clouds  floating  by.  Billy  called,  and  called, 
and  called  again.  The  air  grew  colder  and  colder; 
light  frost  on  the  meadow-grass ;  our  teeth  were 
chattering,  fingers  numb. 

"Then  we  heard  a  bull  give  a  short  bawl,  away 
off  to  the  southward.  Presently  we  could  hear  his 
horns  knock  against  the  trees,  far  up  on  the  hill. 
McDonald  whispered,  'He's  cominV  and  Billy  gave 
another  call. 

"But  it  was  another  bull  that  answered,  back  of 
the  north  end  of  the  pond,  and  pretty  soon  we  could 
hear  him  rapping  along  through  the  woods.  Then 
everything  was  still.  'Call  agen,'  says  McDonald, 
and  Billy  called  again. 

"This  time  the  bawl  came  from  another  bull, 
on  top  of  the  western  hill,  straight  across  the  pond. 
It  seemed  to  start  up  the  other  two  bulls,  and  we 
could  hear  all  three  of  them  thrashing  along,  as 
fast  as  they  could  come,  towards  the  pond.  'Call 
agen,  a  wee  one,'  says  McDonald,  trembling  with 
joy.  And  Billy  called  a  little,  seducing  call,  with 
two  grunts  at  the  end. 

"Well,  sir,  at  that,  a  cow  and  a  calf  came  rushing 
206 


"Billy  began  to  call,  and  it  was  beautiful." 


SILVERHORNS 

down  through  the  brush  not  two  hundred  yards  away 
from  us,  and  the  three  bulls  went  splash  into  the 
water,  one  at  the  south  end,  one  at  the  north  end, 
and  one  on  the  west  shore.  'Lord/  whispers  Mc 
Donald,  'it's  a  meenadgerie ! ' ' 

"Dud,"  said  the  engineer,  getting  down  to  open 
the  furnace  door  a  crack,  "this  is  mair  than  murder 
ye 're  comin*  at;  it's  a  buitchery — or  else  it's  juist  a 
pack  o'  lees." 

"I  give  you  my  word,"  said  Hemenway,  "it's  all 
true  as  the  catechism.  But  let  me  go  on.  The  cow 
and  the  calf  only  stayed  in  the  water  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  ran  back  through  the  woods.  But  the 
three  bulls  went  sloshing  around  in  the  pond  as  if 
they  were  looking  for  something.  We  could  hear 
them,  but  we  could  not  see  any  of  them,  for  the  sky 
had  clouded  up,  and  they  kept  far  away  from 
us.  Billy  tried  another  short  call,  but  they  did  not 
come  any  nearer.  McDonald  whispered  that  he 
thought  the  one  in  the  south  end  might  be  the  biggest, 
and  he  might  be  feeding,  and  the  two  others  might 
be  young  bulls,  and  they  might  be  keeping  away 
because  they  were  afraid  of  the  big  one.  This 
207 


SILVERHORNS 

seemed  reasonable;  and  I  said  that  I  was  going  to 
crawl  around  the  meadow  to  the  south  end.  *  Keep 
near  a  tree,'  says  Mac;  and  I  started. 

"There  was  a  deep  trail,  worn  by  animals^  through 
the  high  grass;  and  in  this  I  crept  along  on  my 
hands  and  knees.  It  was  very  wet  and  muddy.  My 
boots  were  full  of  cold  water.  After  ten  minutes  I 
came  to  a  little  point  running  out  into  the  pond,  and 
one  young  birch  growing  on  it.  Under  this  I 
crawled,  and  rising  up  on  my  knees  looked  over  the 
top  of  the  grass  and  bushes. 

"There,  in  a  shallow  bay,  standing  knee-deep  in 
the  water,  and  rooting  up  the  lily-stems  with  his  long, 
pendulous  nose,  was  the  biggest  and  blackest  bull 
moose  in  the  world.  As  he  pulled  the  roots  from  the 
mud  and  tossed  up  his  dripping  head  I  could  see  his 
horns — four  and  a  half  feet  across,  if  they  were  an 
inch,  and  the  palms  shining  like  tea-trays  in  the 
moonlight.  I  tell  you,  old  Silverhorns  was  the  most 
beautiful  monster  I  ever  saw. 

"But  he  was  too  far  away  to  shoot  by  that  dim 
light,  so  I  left  my  birch-tree  and  crawled  along 
toward  the  edge  of  the  bay.  A  breath  of  wind  must 
208 


SILVERHORNS 

have  blown  across  me  to  him,  for  he  lifted  his  head, 
sniffed,  grunted,  came  out  of  the  water,  and  began 
to  trot  slowly  along  the  trail  which  led  past  me.  I 
knelt  on  one  knee  and  tried  to  take  aim.  A  black 
cloud  came  over  the  moon.  I  couldn't  see  either  of 
the  sights  on  the  gun.  But  when  the  bull  came 
opposite  to  me,  about  fifty  yards  off,  I  blazed  away 
at  a  venture. 

"He  reared  straight  up  on  his  hind  legs — it  looked 
as  if  he  rose  fifty  feet  in  the  air — wheeled,  and  went 
walloping  along  the  trail,  around  the  south  end  of 
the  pond.  In  a  minute  he  was  lost  in  the  woods. 
Good-by,  Silverhorns ! " 

"Ye  tell  it  weel,"  said  McLeod,  reaching  out  for  a 
fresh  cigar,  "fegs!  Ah  doot  Sir  Walter  himseP 
couldna  impruve  upon  it.  An,  sae  thot's  the  way  ye 
didna  murder  puir  Seelverhorrns  ?  It's  a  tale  I'm 
joyfu'  to  be  hearin'." 

"Wait  a  bit,"  Hemenway  answered.  "That's 
not  the  end,  by  a  long  shot.  There's  worse  to  fol 
low.  The  next  morning  we  returned  to  the  pond 
at  daybreak,  for  McDonald  thought  I  might  have 
wounded  the  moose.  We  searched  the  bushes  and 
209 


SILVERHORNS 

the  woods  when  he  went  out  very  carefully,  looking 
for  drops  of  blood  on  his  trail." 

"Bluid!"  groaned  the  engineer.  "Hech,  mon, 
wouldna  that  come  nigh  to  mak'  ye  greet,  to  find 
the  beast's  red  bluid  splashed  ower  the  leaves,  and 
think  o'  him  staggerin'  on  thro'  the  forest,  drippin* 
the  heart  oot  o'  him  wi'  every  step?" 

"But  we  didn't  find  ny  blood,  you  old  sentiment 
alist.  That  shot  in  the  dark  was  a  clear  miss.  We 
followed  the  trail  by  broken  bushes  and  footprints, 
for  half  a  mile,  and  then  came  back  to  the  pond  and 
turned  to  go  down  through  the  edge  of  the  woods  to 
the  camp. 

"It  was  just  after  sunrise.  I  was  walking  a  few 
yards  ahead,  McDonald  next,  and  Billy  last.  Sud 
denly  he  looked  around  to  the  left,  gave  a  low  whistle 
and  dropped  to  the  ground,  pointing  northward. 
Away  at  the  head  of  the  pond,  beyond  the  glitter  of 
the  sun  on  the  water,  the  big  blackness  of  Silver- 
horns'  head  and  body  was  pushing  through  the 
bushes,  dripping  with  dew. 

"Each  of  us  flopped  down  behind  the  nearest 
shrub  as  if  we  had  been  playing  squat-tag.  Billy 
210 


SILVERHORNS 

had  the  birch-bark  horn  with  him,  and  he  gave  a 
low,  short  call.  Silverhorns  heard  it,  turned,  and 
came  parading  slowly  down  the  western  shore,  now 
on  the  sand-beach,  now  splashing  through  the  shal 
low  water.  We  could  see  every  motion  and  hear 
every  sound.  He  marched  along  as  if  he  owned  the 
earth,  swinging  his  huge  head  from  side  to  side  and 
grunting  at  each  step. 

"You  see,  we  were  just  in  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
strung  along  the  south  end  of  the  pond,  Billy 
nearest  the  west  shore,  where  the  moose  was  walk 
ing,  McDonald  next,  and  I  last,  perhaps  fifteen 
yards  farther  to  the  east.  It  was  a  fool  arrange 
ment,  but  we  had  no  time  to  think  about  it. 
McDonald  whispered  that  I  should  wait  until  the 
moose  came  close  to  us  and  stopped. 

"So  I  waited.  I  could  see  him  swagger  along  the 
sand  and  step  out  around  the  fallen  logs.  The 
nearer  he  came  the  bigger  his  horns  looked;  each 
palm  was  like  an  enormous  silver  fish-fork  with 
twenty  prongs.  Then  he  went  out  of  my  sight  for 
a  minute  as  he  passed  around  a  little  bay  in  the 
southwest  corner,  getting  nearer  and  nearer  to  Billy. 
211 


SILVERHORNS 

But  I  could  still  hear  his  steps  distinctly — slosh, 
slosh,  slosh — thud,  thud,  thud  (the  grunting  had 
stopped) — closer  came  the  sound,  until  it  was  di 
rectly  behind  the  dense  green  branches  of  a  fallen 
balsam-tree,  not  twenty  feet  away  from  Billy.  Then 
suddenly  the  noise  ceased.  I  could  hear  my  own 
heart  pounding  at  my  ribs,  but  nothing  else.  And 
of  Silverhorns  not  hair  nor  hide  was  visible.  It 
looked  as  if  he  must  be  a  Boojum,  and  had  the 
power  to 

4  Softly  and  silently  vanish  away.' 

"Billy  and  Mac  were  beckoning  to  me  fiercely  and 
pointing  to  the  green  balsam-top.  I  gripped  my 
rifle  and  started  to  creep  toward  them.  A  little  twig, 
about  as  thick  as  the  tip  of  a  fishing-rod,  cracked 
under  my  knee.  There  was  a  terrible  crash  behind 
the  balsam,  a  plunging  through  the  underbrush  and 
a  rattling  among  the  branches,  a  lumbering  gallop 
up  the  hill  through  the  forest,  and  Silverhorns  was 
gone  into  the  invisible. 

"He  had  stopped  behind  the  tree  because  he 
smelled  the  grease  on  Billy's  boots.  As  he  stood 
212 


SILVERHORNS 

there,  hesitating,  Billy  and  Mac  could  see  his  shoul 
der  and  his  side  through  a  gap  in  the  branches — a 
dead-easy  shot.  But  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  he 
might  as  well  have  been  in  Alaska.  I  told  you  that 
the  way  we  had  placed  ourselves  was  a  fool  arrange 
ment.  But  McDonald  would  not  say  anything 
about  it,  except  to  express  his  conviction  that  it  was 
not  predestinated  we  should  get  that  moose." 

"Ah  didna  ken  auld  Rob  had  sae  much  theology 
aboot  him,"  commented  McLeod.  "But  noo  I'm 
thinkin*  ye  went  back  to  yer  main  camp,  an*  lat  puir 
Seelverhorrns  live  oot  his  life?" 

"Not  much,  did  we!  For  now  we  knew  that  he 
wasn't  badly  frightened  by  the  adventure  of  the 
night  before,  and  that  we  might  get  another  chance 
at  him.  In  the  afternoon  it  began  to  rain;  and  it 
poured  for  forty-eight  hours.  We  cowered  in  our 
shelter  before  a  smoky  fire,  and  lived  on  short  rations 
of  crackers  and  dried  prunes — it  was  a  hungry  time." 

"But  wasna  there  slathers  o'  food  at  the  main 
camp?  Ony  fule  wad  ken  eneugh  to  gae  doon  to 
the  river  an'  tak'  a  guid  fill-up." 

"But  that  wasn't  what  we  wanted.  It  was  Silver- 
213 


SILVERHORNS 

horns.  Billy  and  I  made  McDonald  stay,  and 
Thursday  afternoon,  when  the  clouds  broke  away, 
we  went  back  to  the  pond  to  have  a  last  try  at  turn 
ing  our  luck. 

"This  time  we  took  our  positions  with  great  care, 
among  some  small  spruces  on  a  point  that  ran  out 
from  the  southern  meadow.  I  was  farthest  to  the 
west;  McDonald  (who  had  also  brought  his  gun) 
was  next;  Billy,  with  the  horn,  was  farthest  away 
from  the  point  where  he  thought  the  moose  would 
come  out.  So  Billy  began  to  call,  very  beautifully. 
The  long  echoes  went  bellowing  over  the  hills.  The 
afternoon  was  still  and  the  setting  sun  shone  through 
a  light  mist,  like  a  ball  of  red  gold. 

"Fifteen  minutes  after  sundown  Silverhorns  gave 
a  loud  bawl  from  the  western  ridge  and  came  crash 
ing  down  the  hill.  He  cleared  the  bushes  two  or 
three  hundred  yards  to  our  left  with  a  leap,  rushed 
into  the  pond,  and  came  wading  around  the  south 
shore  toward  us.  The  bank  here  was  rather  high, 
perhaps  four  feet  above  the  water,  and  the  mud  be 
low  it  was  deep,  so  that  the  moose  sank  in  to  his  knees. 
I  give  you  my  word,  as  he  came  along  there  was 
214 


SILVER  HORNS 

nothing  visible  to  Mac  and  me  except  his  ears  and  his 
horns.      Everything  else  was  hidden  below  the  bank. 

"There  were  we  behind  our  little  spruce- trees. 
And  there  was  Silverhorns,  standing  still  now,  right 
in  front  of  us.  Arid  all  that  Mac  and  I  could  see 
were  those  big  ears  and  those  magnificent  antlers, 
appearing  and  disappearing  as  he  lifted  and  lowered 
his  head.  It  was  a  fearful  situation.  And  there 
was  Billy,  with  his  birch-bark  hooter,  forty  yards 
below  us — he  could  see  the  moose  perfectly. 

"I  looked  at  Mac,  and  he  looked  at  me.  He 
whispered  something  about  predestination.  Then 
Billy  lifted  his  horn  and  made  ready  to  give  a  little 
soft  grunt,  to  see  if  the  moose  wouldn't  move  along 
a  bit,  just  to  oblige  us.  But  as  Billy  drew  in  his 
breath,  one  of  those  tiny  fool  flies  that  are  always 
blundering  around  a  man's  face  flew  straight  down 
his  throat.  Instead  of  a  call  he  burst  out  with  a 
furious,  strangling  fit  of  coughing.  The  moose  gave 
a  snort,  and  a  wild  leap  in  the  water,  and  galloped 
away  under  the  bank,  the  way  he  had  come.  Mac 
and  I  both  fired  at  his  vanishing  ears  and  horns,  but 

of  course " 

215 


SILVERHORNS 

"All  aboooard!"  The  conductor's  shout  rang 
along  the  platform. 

"Line's  clear,"  exclaimed  McLeod,  rising.  " Noo 
we'll  be  off!  Wull  ye  stay  here  wi'  me,  or  gang  awa* 
back  to  yer  bed?" 

"Here,"  answered  Hemenway,  not  budging  from 
his  place  on  the  bench. 

The  bell  clanged,  and  the  powerful  machine  puffed 
out  on  its  flaring  way  through  the  night.  Faster  and 
faster  came  the  big  explosive  breaths,  until  they 
blended  in  a  long  steady  roar,  and  the  train  was 
sweeping  northward  at  forty  miles  an  hour.  The 
clouds  had  broken;  the  night  had  grown  colder; 
the  gibbous  moon  gleamed  over  the  vast  and  soli 
tary  landscape.  It  was  a  different  thing  to  Hemen 
way,  riding  in  the  cab  of  the  locomotive,  from  an 
ordinary  journey  in  the  passenger-car  or  an  uncon 
scious  ride  in  the  sleeper.  Here  he  was  on  the  crest 
of  motion,  at  the  fore-front  of  speed,  and  the  quiver 
ing  engine  with  the  long  train  behind  it  seemed  like 
a  living  creature  leaping  along  the  track.  It  re 
sponded  to  the  labour  of  the  fireman  and  the  touch 
of  the  engineer  almost  as  if  it  could  think  and  feel. 
216 


SILVERHORNS 

Its  pace  quickened  without  a  jar;  its  great  eye 
pierced  the  silvery  space  of  moonlight  with  a  shaft 
of  blazing  yellow;  the  rails  sang  before  it  and  trem 
bled  behind  it;  it  was  an  obedient  and  joyful  mon 
ster,  conquering  distance  and  devouring  darkness. 

On  the  wide  level  barrens  beyond  the  Tete-a- 
Gouche  River  the  locomotive  reached  its  best  speed, 
purring  like  a  huge  cat  and  running  smoothly.  Mc- 
Leod  leaned  back  on  his  bench  with  a  satisfied  air. 

"She's  doin'  fine,  the  nicht,"  said  he.  "Ah'm 
thinkin',  whiles,  o'  yer  auld  Seelverhorrns.  Whaur 
is  he  noo?  Awa'  up  on  Hogan's  Pond,  gallantin' 
around  i'  the  licht  o'  the  mune  wi'  a  lady  moose,  an* 
the  gladness  juist  bubblin'  in  his  hairt.  Ye're  no 
sorry  that  he's  leevin'  yet,  are  ye,  Dud?" 

"Well,"  answered  Hemenway  slowly,  between  the 
puffs  of  his  pipe,  "I  can't  say  I'm  sorry  that  he's 
alive  and  happy,  though  I'm  not  glad  that  I  lost  him. 
But  he  did  his  best,  the  old  rogue;  he  played  a  good 
game,  and  he  deserved  to  win.  Where  he  is  now 
nobody  can  tell.  He  was  travelling  like  a  streak  of 
lightning  when  I  last  saw  him.  By  this  time  he  may 


217 


SILVER  HORNS 

"  What's  yon  ?  "  cried  McLeod,  springing  up.  Far 
ahead,  in  the  narrow  apex  of  the  converging  rails, 
stood  a  black  form,  motionless,  mysterious.  McLeod 
grasped  the  whistle-cord.  The  black  form  loomed 
higher  in  the  moonlight  and  was  clearly  silhouetted 
against  the  horizon — a  big  moose  standing  across  the 
track.  They  could  see  his  grotesque  head,  his  shad 
owy  horns,  his  high,  sloping  shoulders.  The  engineer 
pulled  the  cord.  The  whistle  shrieked  loud  and  long. 

The  moose  turned  and  faced  the  sound.  The 
glare  of  the  headlight  fascinated,  challenged,  angered 
him.  There  he  stood  defiant,  front  feet  planted  wide 
apart,  head  lowered,  gazing  steadily  at  the  unknown 
enemy  that  was  rushing  toward  him.  He  was  the 
monarch  of  the  wilderness.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  world  that  he  feared,  except  those  strange-smell 
ing  little  beasts  on  two  legs  who  crept  around  through 
the  woods  and  shot  fire  out  of  sticks.  This  was 
surely  not  one  of  those  treacherous  animals,  but 
some  strange  new  creature  that  dared  to  shriek  at 
him  and  try  to  drive  him  out  of  its  way.  He  would 
not  move.  He  would  try  his  strength  against  this 
big  yellow-eyed  beast. 

218 


There  he  stood  defiant,  front  feet  planted  wide  apart. 


SILVERHORNS 

"Losh!"  cried  McLeod;  "he's  gaun'  to  fecht 
us!"  and  he  dropped  the  cord,  grabbed  the  levers, 
and  threw  the  steam  off  and  the  brakes  on  hard. 
The  heavy  train  slid  groaning  and  jarring  along  the 
track.  The  moose  never  stirred.  The  fire  smould 
ered  in  his  small  narrow  eyes.  His  black  crest  was 
bristling.  As  the  engine  bore  down  upon  him,  not 
a  rod  away,  he  reared  high  in  the  air,  his  antlers 
flashing  in  the  blaze,  and  struck  full  at  the  head 
light  with  his  immense  fore  feet.  There  was  a 
shattering  of  glass,  a  crash,  a  heavy  shock,  and  the 
train  slid  on  through  the  darkness,  lit  only  by  the 
moon. 

Thirty  or  forty  yards  beyond,  the  momentum  was 
exhausted  and  the  engine  came  to  a  stop.  Hemen- 
way  and  McLeod  clambered  down  and  ran  back, 
with  the  other  trainmen  and  a  few  of  the  passen 
gers.  The  moose  was  lying  in  the  ditch  beside  the 
track,  stone  dead  and  frightfully  shattered.  But 
the  great  head  and  the  vast,  spreading  antlers  were 
intact. 

"  Seelver-horrns,  sure  eneugh!"  said  McLeod, 
bending  over  him.  "He  was  crossin'  frae  the 
219 


SILVERHORNS 

Nepissiguit  to  the  Jacquet;  but  he  didna  get  across. 
Weel,  Dud,  are  ye  glad?  Ye  hae  killt  yer  first 
moose!" 

"Yes,"  said  Hemenway,  "it's  my  first  moose. 
But  it's  your  first  moose,  too.  And  I  think  it's  our 
last.  Ye  gods,  what  a  fighter!" 


220 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 


NOTIONS   ABOUT    NOVELS 

1  OU  must  write  a  novel,"  said  my  Uncle  Peter 
to  the  young  Man  of  Letters.  "The  novel  is  the 
literary  form  in  which  the  psychological  conditions 
of  interest  are  most  easily  discovered  and  met.  It 
appeals  directly  to  the  reader's  self -consciousness, 
and  invites  him  to  fancy  how  fine  a  figure  he  would 
cut  in  more  picturesque  circumstances  than  his  own. 
When  it  simplifies  great  events,  as  Stevenson  said 
it  must,  it  produces  the  feeling  of  power;  and 
when  it  dignifies  the  commonplace,  as  Schopen 
hauer  said  it  ought  to,  it  produces  the  sense  of  im 
portance.  People  like  to  imagine  themselves  play 
ing  on  a  large  stage.  The  most  humdrum  of 
men  would  be  pleased  to  act  a  hero's  part,  if  it 
could  be  done  without  risk  or  effort;  and  the  plain 
est  of  women  has  the  capacity  to  enjoy,  at  least  in 
fancy,  a  greater  variety  in  the  affair  of  love  than  real 
life  is  likely  to  furnish.  Novels  give  these  unsatis 
fied  souls  their  opportunity.  That  is  why  fiction  is 
so  popular.  You  must  take  advantage  of  the  laws 
223 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 

of  the  human  mind  if  you  want  to  be  a  successful 
author.  Write  a  novel." 

This  protracted  remark  was  patiently  received  by 
the  little  company  of  friends,  who  were  sitting  on  a 
rocky  eminence  of  the  York  Harbor  Golf  Links 
(near  the  seventh  hole,  which  was  called,  for 
obvious  reasons,  "Gbtterdammerung").  My  Uncle 
Peter's  right  to  make  long  speeches  was  conceded. 
In  him  they  did  not  seem  criminal,  because  they 
were  evidently  necessary.  Moreover,  in  this  case, 
the  majority  agreed  with  him,  and  therefore  were 
not  tempted  to  interrupt. 

"A  novel,"  said  the  Publisher,  "will  bear  ten 
times  as  much  advertising  as  any  other  kind  of  book. 
This  is  a  fact." 

"A  novel,"  said  the  Critic,  "is  the  most  highly 
developed  type  of  literature.  Therefore,  it  is  the 
fittest  to  survive.  This  is  a  theory.  And  I  should 
like " 

But  the  Critic  did  not  share  the  Philosopher's 
long-speech  prerogative.  His  audience  was  inclined 
to  limit  him  to  the  time  when  he  could  be  pungent. 

The  Business  Man  broke  in  upon  him:  "A  novel 
224 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 

is  good  because  it  is  just  plain  reading — no  theories 
or  explanations — or  at  least,  if  there  are  any,  you 
can  skip  them." 

"Novels,"  said  the  Doctor  of  Divinity  solemnly, 
"are  valuable  because  they  give  an  insight  into  life. 
I  deprecate  the  vice  of  excessive  novel-reading  in 
young  persons.  But  for  myself  I  wish  that  there 
were  more  really  interesting  novels  to  read.  Most 
of  the  old  ones  I  have  read  already." 

A  smile  flickered  around  the  circle.  "What  do 
you  call  old?"  asked  the  Cynic.  "Have  you  read 
'The  Vulgarities  of  Antoinette'?" 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  Publisher;  "some  novels 
grow  as  old  in  a  twelvemonth  as  others  do  in  a 
decade.  A  book  is  not  really  aged  until  it  ceases 
to  be  advertised.  'The  Celestial  Triplets/  for  ex 
ample.  But  fortunately  it  is  a  poor  year  that  does 
not  produce  at  least  three  new  novelists  of  distinc 
tion." 

"For  my  part,"  said  the  True  Story  Teller,  seated 
on  her  throne  among  the  rocks  and  dispensing  gentle 
influence  like  the  silent  sweetness  of  the  summer 
afternoon,  "for  my  part,  I  am  not  sure  that  fiction 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 

is  the  only  kind  of  literature  worth  reading.  Essays, 
biography,  history  and  poetry  still  have  their  at 
tractions  for  me.  But  what  I  should  like  to  know  is 
what  made  one  kind  of  novel  so  popular  yesterday, 
and  what  puts  another  kind  in  its  place  to-day,  and 
what  kind  is  likely  to  last  forever?  What  gives 
certain  novels  their  amazing  vogue?" 

"A  new  public,"  answered  the  Cynic.  "Popular 
education  has  done  it.  Fifty  years  ago  thinking  and 
reading  went  together.  But  nowadays  reading  is 
the  most  familiar  amusement  of  the  thoughtless.  It 
is  the  new  public  that  buys  four  hundred  thousand 
copies  of  a  novel  in  a  single  year." 

"A  striking  explanation,"  said  the  Critic,  "but, 
you  know,  De  Quincey  said  practically  the  same 
thing  more  than  fifty  years  ago  in  his  essay  on  Oliver 
Goldsmith.  Yet  the  sale  of  'The  Prude  of  Pimlico' 
exceeds  the  sale  of  the  leading  novel  of  De  Quincey's 
day  by  at  least  five  hundred  per  cent.  How  do  you 
explain  that?" 

"Very  simply,"  said  the  Cynic.     "A  thousand  per 
centum  increase  in  the  new  public;   stock  of  intelli 
gence  still  more  freely  watered." 
226 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 

"But  you  are  not  answering  my  question  about 
the  different  kinds  of  novels,"  said  the  lady.  "Tell 
me  why  the  types  of  fiction  change." 

"Fashion,  dear  lady,"  replied  the  Cynic.  "It  is 
like  tight  sleeves  arid  loose  sleeves.  People  feel  com 
fortable  when  they  wear  what  everybody  is  wearing 
and  read  what  everybody  is  reading.  The  art  of 
modern  advertising  is  an  appeal  to  the  instinct  of 
imitation.  Our  friend  the  Publisher  has  become  a 
millionaire  by  discovering  that  the  same  law  governs 
the  sale  of  books  and  of  dry-goods." 

"Not  at  all,"  interrupted  the  Critic;  "your  ex 
planation  is  too  crude  for  satire  and  too  shallow  for 
science.  There  is  a  regular  evolution  in  fiction. 
First  comes  the  external  type,  the  novel  of  plot; 
then  the  internal  type,  the  novel  of  character;  then 
the  social  type,  the  novel  of  problem  and  purpose. 
The  development  proceeds  from  outward  to  inward, 
from  objective  to  subjective,  from  simplicity  to  com 
plexity." 

"But,"  said  the  lady,  "if  I  remember  rightly,  the 
facts  happened  the  other  way.  'Pamela'  and  *  Jo 
seph  Andrews'  and  *  Caleb  Williams'  are  character 
227 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 

novels;  'Waverley'  and  'Ivanhoe'  are  adventure 
novels.  Kingsley  wrote  'Yeast'  and  'Alton  Locke* 
before  'Westward  Ho!'  and  'Hypatia.'  'Bleak 
House'  and  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin'  are  older  than 
'Lorna  Doone'  and  'David  Balfour.'  The  day  be 
fore  yesterday  it  was  all  character-sketching,  mainly 
Scotch;  the  day  before  that  it  was  all  problem- 
solving,  chiefly  religious;  yesterday  it  was  all  ad 
venture-seeking,  called  historical  because  it  seems 
highly  improbable;  and  to-day  it  is  a  mixture  of 
automobile- journeys  and  slum-life.  It  looks  to  me 
as  if  there  must  be  somebody  always  ready  to  read 
some  kind  of  fiction,  but  his  affections  are  weather- 
cocky." 

"I  don't  object  to  a  few  characters  in  a  novel," 
said  the  Man  of  Business,  "provided  they  do  some 
thing  interesting." 

"Right,"  said  the  Publisher;  "the  public  always 
knows  what  is  interesting,  provided  it  is  properly 
pointed  out.  Now  here  is  a  little  list  of  our  most 
profitable  new  books:  a  story  of  a  beautiful  Cow-boy, 
a  Kentucky  love-tale,  a  narrative  of  the  Second 
Crusade,  a  romance  about  an  imaginary  princess 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 

and  two  motor-cars,  a  modern  society  story  with 
vivid  descriptions  of  the  principal  New  York  res 
taurants  and  Monte  Carlo — all  of  these  have 
passed  the  forty-thousand  line.  We  send  out  the 
list  with  a  statement  to  that  effect,  and  advise  people 
not  to  lose  the  chance  of  reading  books  that  have 
aroused  so  much  interest." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  put  in  the  Doctor  of  Divinity, 
"that  some  of  the  modern  books  do  not  give  me  as 
much  insight  into  life  as  I  should  like.  I  perused 
'The  Prisoner  on  a  Bender'  the  other  day  without 
getting  a  single  illustration  for  a  sermon.  But  I 
continue  to  read  novels  from  a  sense  of  duty,  to  keep 
in  touch  with  my  young  people." 

"I  think,"  began  my  Uncle  Peter  (and  this  solemn 
announcement  made  everyone  attentive),  "I  think 
you  have  failed  to  discern  a  certain  law  of  periodicity 
which  governs  the  formal  variations  of  fiction.  This 
periodicity  is  natural  to  the  human  mind,  and  it  also 
has  relations  to  profound  social  movements.  The 
popularity  of  the  novels  of  Fielding,  Richardson,  and 
Smollett,  whose  characters  were  mainly  drawn  from 
humble  life,  was  due  to  the  rise  of  the  same  spirit 
229 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 

of  democracy  that  produced  the  American  and 
French  Revolutions.  The  reaction  to  the  romantic 
and  historical  novel,  under  Scott  and  his  followers, 
was  a  revival  of  the  aristocratic  spirit.  It  took  a 
historical  form  because  the  past  had  been  made 
vivid  to  the  popular  imagination  by  the  great  his 
torians  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  purpose 
novels,  which  took  the  lead  in  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  were  another  reaction,  and  came 
out  of  the  social  ferment  of  the  times.  The  general 
pictures  of  society  and  manners  which  followed  were 
written  for  a  public  that  was  fairly  well-to-do  and 
contented  with  itself.  The  later  realistic  studies  of 
life  in  its  lowest  forms  were  the  offspring  of  the 
scientific  spirit.  And  the  latest  reaction  to  the  novel 
of  adventure,  with  its  emphasis  on  daring  and 
virility,  is  connected  with  the  remarkable  revival  of 
imperialism.  But  while  fiction  is  specifically  the 
most  transient  of  forms,  generically  it  is  the  most 
permanent.  Therefore,  our  young  Man  of  Letters 
must  write  a  novel.  That  is  what  the  public 
wants." 

"Yes,"  cried  the  Publisher,  "a  novel  of  adventure 
230 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 

in  Cromwell's  time.     That  period  is  up,  just  now, 
and  has  not  been  worked  out." 

"A  novel  of  purpose,"  said  the  Critic;  "that  is 
the  highest  type  of  fiction." 

"A  novel  of  character,"  said  the  Cynic.  "A 
change  in  fashion  is  due.  Take  the  President  of  a 
Trust  for  your  hero,  and  make  him  repent  under  the 
pressure  of  the  Social  Boycott.  The  public  loves 
surprises." 

"Why  not  write  the  Great  American  Novel  ?"  said 
the  Doctor  of  Divinity.  "I  have  heard  several  de 
mands  for  it." 

"A  good  love  story,"  said  the  Man  of  Business, 
"or  perhaps  a  detective  story,  would  be  the  best 
thing  to  sell." 

"The  one  point  on  which  your  friends  seem 
agreed,"  said  the  True  Story  Teller,  with  a  smile, 
"is  that  the  public  gives  you  an  order  for  a 
novel." 

"Well,  you  know,  I  have  written  one  already," 
answered  the  young  Man  of  Letters,  very  quietly. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  us?"  chorused  the  others. 
"Why  haven't  you  published  it?" 
831 


NOTIONS   ABOUT   NOVELS 

He  hesitated  a  moment  before  answering:  "It  did 
not  seem  to  me  good  enough." 

"My  young  friend,"  said  the  Publisher,  with  his 
most  impressive  and  benevolent  air,  "we  have  your 
welfare  at  heart.  You  may  write  essays  and  stories 
and  poems  as  a  recreation,  or  for  some  future  age. 
But  this  is  the  day  of  the  novel,  and  you  are  wasting 
your  chance  unless  you  publish  one  as  soon  as  possi 
ble.  Touch  your  novel  up,  or  give  it  to  me  as  it  is. 
You  will  certainly  make  a  big  thing  out  of  it." 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  young  Man  of  Letters,  thought 
fully;  "but  what  if  I  would  rather  write  the  things 
that  please  me  most,  and  try  to  do  good  work?" 

My  Uncle  Peter  looked  at  him  half-quizzically, 
yet  with  a  smile  of  benevolent  approval,  and  con 
ferred  upon  him  the  honour  and  reward  of  escorting 
the  True  Story  Teller  home  in  his  canoe  that  evening, 
across  the  swirling  river,  where  the  molten  gold  of 
sunset  ran  slowly  to  the  sea. 


232 


SOME    REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

WITH  A  FOOT-NOTE   ON  A    FISH 


SOME    REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

WITH    A   FOOT-NOTE   ON  A    FISH 

I 
CITY    GULLS 

XHE  current  estimate  of  the  sea-gull  as  an  intel 
lectual  force  is  compressed  into  the  word  "gullibility" 
— a  verbal  monument  of  contempt.  But  when  we 
think  how  many  things  the  gull  does  that  we  cannot 
do — how  he  has  mastered  the  arts  of  flying  and 
floating,  so  that  he  is  equally  at  home  in  the  air  and 
on  the  water;  how  cleverly  he  adapts  himself  to  his 
environment,  keeping  warm  among  the  ice-floes  in 
winter  and  cool  when  all  the  rest  of  the  folks  at  the 
summer  watering-places  are  sweltering  in  the  heat; 
how  well  he  holds  his  own  against  the  encroachments 
of  that  grasping  animal,  man,  who  has  driven  so 
many  other  wild  creatures  to  the  wall,  and  over  it 
into  extinction;  how  prudently  he  accepts  and 
utilizes  all  the  devices  of  civilization  which  suit  him, 
235 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

(such  as  steamship-lanes  across  the  Atlantic,  and 
dumping-scows  in  city  harbors,  and  fish-oil  factories 
on  the  seashore),  without  becoming  in  the  least  civ 
ilized  himself — in  short,  when  we  consider  how  he 
succeeds  in  doing  what  every  wise  person  is  trying  to 
do,  living  his  own  proper  life  amid  various  and 
changing  circumstances,  it  seems  as  if  we  might  well 
reform  the  spelling  of  that  supercilious  word,  and 
write  it  "gull-ability." 

But  probably  the  gull  would  show  no  more  relish 
for  the  compliment  than  he  has  hitherto  shown  dis 
taste  for  the  innuendo ;  both  of  them  being  inedible, 
and  he  of  a  happy  disposition,  indifferent  to  purely 
academic  opinions  of  his  rank  and  station  in  the 
universe.  Imagine  a  gull  being  disquieted  because 
some  naturalist  solemnly  averred  that  a  hawk  or  a 
swallow  was  a  better  master  of  the  art  of  flight;  or 
a  mocking-bird  falling  into  a  mood  of  fierce  resent 
ment  or  nervous  depression  because  some  professor 
of  music  declared  that  the  hermit  thrush  had  a  more 
spontaneous  and  inspired  song!  The  gull  goes 
a-flying  in  his  own  way  and  the  mocking-bird  sits 
a-singing  his  roundelay,  original  or  imitated,  just  as 
236 


SOME   REMARKS   ON    GULLS 

it  comes  to  him;  and  neither  of  them  is  angry  or 
depressed  when  a  critic  makes  odious  comparisons, 
because  they  are  both  doing  the  best  that  they  know 
with  "  a  whole  and  happy  heart."  Not  so  with  poets, 
orators,  and  other  human  professors  of  the  high 
flying  and  cantatory  arts.  They  are  often  perturbed 
and  acerbated,  and  sometimes  diverted  from  their 
proper  course  by  the  winds  of  adverse  comment. 

When  Cicero  Tomlinson  began  his  career  as  a 
public  speaker  he  showed  a  very  pretty  vein  of  hu 
mour,  which  served  to  open  his  hearers'  minds  with 
honest  laughter  to  receive  his  plain  and  forcible  argu 
ments.  But  someone  remarked  that  his  speaking 
lacked  dignity  and  weight;  so  he  loaded  himself  with 
the  works  of  Edmund  Burke;  and  now  he  discusses 
the  smallest  subject  with  a  ponderosity  suited  to  the 
largest.  The  charm  of  Alfred  Tennyson  Starling's 
early  lyrics  was  unmistakable.  But  in  an  evil  day 
a  newspaper  announced  that  his  poetry  smelled  of 
the  lamp  and  was  deficient  in  virility.  Alfred  took 
it  painfully  to  heart,  and  fell  into  a  violent  state  of 
Whitmania.  Have  you  seen  his  patient  imitations 
of  the  long-lined,  tumultuous  one  ? 
237 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

After  all,  the  surest  way  to  be  artificial  is  to  try  to 
be  natural  according  to  some  other  man's  recipe. 

One  reason  why  the  wild  children  of  nature  at 
tract  our  eyes,  and  give  us  an  inward,  subtle  satis 
faction  in  watching  them,  is  because  they  seem  so 
confident  that  their  own  way  of  doing  things  is,  for 
them  at  least,  the  best  way.  They  let  themselves  go, 
on  the  air,  in  the  water,  over  the  hills,  among  the 
trees,  and  do  not  ask  for  admiration  or  correction 
from  people  who  are  differently  built.  The  sea 
gulls  flying  over  a  busy  port  of  commerce,  or  floating 
at  ease  on  the  discoloured,  choppy,  churned-up  waves 
of  some  great  river, 

"  Bordered  by  cities,  and  hoarse 
With  a  thousand  cries," 

are  unconscious  symbols  of  nature's  self-reliance  and 
content  with  her  ancient  methods.  Not  a  whit  have 
they  changed  their  manner  of  flight,  their  comforta 
ble,  rocking-chair  seat  upon  the  water,  their  creak 
ing,  eager  voice  of  hunger  and  excitement,  since  the 
days  when  the  port  was  a  haven  of  solitude,  and  the 
river  was  crossed  only  by  the  red  man's  canoe  pass- 
238 


SOME   REMARKS   ON    GULLS 

ing  from  forest  to  forest.  They  are  untroubled  by 
the  fluctuations  of  trade,  the  calms  and  tempests 
which  afflict  the  stock  market,  the  hot  waves  and 
cold  waves  of  politics.  They  do  not  fash  themselves 
about  the  fashions — except,  perhaps,  that  silly  and 
barbarous  one  of  adorning  the  headgear  of  women 
with  the  remains  of  dead  gulls.  They  do  not  ask 
whether  life  is  worth  living,  but  launch  themselves 
boldly  upon  the  supposition  that  it  is,  and  seem 
to  find  it  interesting,  various,  and  highly  enjoy 
able,  even  among  wharves,  steamboats,  and  factory 
chimneys. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  these  untamed  visitors 
of  the  metropolis  was 

"  When  that  I  was  a  littel  tine  boy," 

and  lived  on  the  Heights  of  Brooklyn  A  nurse, 
whose  hateful  official  relation  was  mitigated  by  many 
amiable  personal  qualities — she  was  a  rosy  Irish  girl 
— had  the  happy  idea  of  going,  now  and  then,  for  a 
"day  off"  and  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  on  one  of  the 
ferry-boats  that  ply  the  waters  of  Manhattan.  Some 
times  she  took  one  of  the  ordinary  ferries  that  went 
239 


SOME    REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

straight  over  to  New  York  and  back  again;  but 
more  often  she  chose  a  boat  that  proposed  a  longer 
and  more  adventurous  voyage — to  Hoboken,or  Hunt 
er's  Point,  or  Staten  Island.  We  would  make  the 
trip  to  and  fro  several  times,  but  Biddy  never  paid, 
so  far  as  my  memory  goes,  more  than  one  fare.  By 
what  arrangement  or  influence  she  made  the  deck 
hands  considerately  blind  to  this  repetition  of  the 
journey  without  money  and  without  price,  I  neither 
knew  nor  cared,  being  altogether  engaged  with  play 
ing  about  the  deck  and  admiring  the  wonders  of  the 
vasty  deep. 

The  other  boats  were  wonderful,  especially  the  big 
sailing-ships,  which  were  far  more  numerous  then 
than  they  are  now.  The  steam  tugs,  with  their  bluff, 
pushing,  hasty  manners,  were  very  attractive,  and  I 
wondered  why  all  of  them  had  a  gilt  eagle,  instead 
of  a  gull,  on  top  of  the  wheel-house.  A  little  row- 
boat,  tossing  along  the  edge  of  the  wharves,  or  push 
ing  out  bravely  for  Governor's  Island,  seemed  to  be 
full  of  perilous  adventure.  But  most  wonderful  of 
all  were  the  sea-gulls,  flying  and  floating  all  over  the 
East  River  and  the  North  River  and  the  bay. 
240 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

Where  did  they  come  from  ?  It  was  easy  to  see 
where  they  got  their  living;  they  were  "snappers-up 
of  unconsidered  trifles"  from  every  passing  vessel 
whose  cabin-boy  threw  the  rubbish  overboard.  If 
you  could  succeed  in  getting  off  the  peel  of  an  orange 
in  two  or  three  big  pieces,  or  if  you  could  persuade 
yourself  to  leave  a  reasonably  large  core  of  an  apple, 
or,  best  of  all,  if  you  had  the  limp  skin  of  a  yellow 
banana,  you  cast  the  forbidden  fruit  into  the  water, 
and  saw  how  quickly  one  of  the  gulls  would  pick  it 
up,  and  how  beautifully  the  others  would  fight  him 
for  it.  Evidently  gulls  have  a  wider  range  of  diet 
than  little  boys;  also  they  have  never  been  told  that 
it  is  wrong  to  fight. 

"How  greedy  they  are!  What  makes  some  of 
them  white  and  some  of  them  gray  ?  They  must  be 
different  kinds;  or  else  the  gray  ones  are  the  father 
and  mother  gulls.  But  if  that  is  so,  it  is  funny  that 
the  white  ones  are  the  best  fliers  and  seem  able  to 
take  things  away  from  the  gray  ones.  How  would 
you  like  to  fly  like  that?  They  swoop  around  and 
go  just  where  they  want  to.  Perhaps  that  is  the  way 
the  angels  fly;  only  of  course  the  angels  are  much 
241 


SOME   REMARKS    ON   GULLS 

larger,  and  very  much  more  particular  about  what 
they  eat.  Isn't  it  queer  that  all  the  gulls  have  eyes 
just  alike — black  and  shiny  and  round,  just  like  little 
shoe-buttons?  How  funnily  they  swim!  They  sit 
right  down  on  the  water  as  if  it  wasn't  wet.  Don't 
you  wish  you  could  do  that?  Look  how  they  tuck 
up  their  pinky  feet  under  them  when  they  fly,  and 
how  they  turn  their  heads  from  side  to  side,  looking 
for  something  good  to  eat.  See,  there's  a  great  big 
flock  all  together  in  the  water,  over  yonder,  must  be 
a  thousand  hundred.  Now  they  all  fly  up  at  once, 
like  when  you  tear  a  newspaper  into  little  scraps  and 
throw  a  handful  out  of  the  window.  Where  do  you 
suppose  they  go  at  night  ?  Perhaps  they  sleep  on  the 
water.  That  must  be  fun !  Do  they  have  gulls  in  Ire 
land,  Biddy,  and  are  all  their  eyes  black  and  shiny  ?" 
"Sure!"  says  Biddy.  "An'  they  do  be  a  hundred 
toimes  bigger  an'  foiner  than  these  wans.  The 
feathers  o'  thim  shoines  in  the  sun  loike  silver  and 
gowld,  an'  their  oyes  is  loike  jools,  an'  they  do  be 
floying  fasther  then  the  ships  can  sail.  If  ye  was 
only  seein'  some  o'  thim  rale  Oirish  gulls,  ye'd  think 
no  more  o'  these  little  wans!" 
242 


SOME   REMARKS   ON   GULLS 

This  increases  your  determination  to  go  to  the 
marvellous  green  island  some  day;  but  it  does  not 
in  the  least  diminish  your  admiration  for  the  gulls  of 
Manhattan.  In  the  summer,  when  you  go  to  the 
seaside  and  watch  the 

"  Gray  spirits  of  the  sea  and  of  the  shore  " 

sailing  over  the  white  beach  or  floating  on  the  blue 
waves  of  the  unsullied  ocean,  you  wonder  whether 
these  country  gulls  are  happier  than  the  city  gulls. 
That  they  are  different  you  are  sure,  and  also  that 
they  must  have  less  variety  in  their  diet,  hardly  any 
banana-skins  and  orange-peel  at  all.  But  then  they 
have  more  fish,  and  probably  more  fun  in  catching 
them. 

These  are  memories  of  old  times — the  ancient  days 
before  the  Great  Invasion  of  the  English  Sparrows — 
the  good  old  days  when  orioles  and  robins  still  built 
their  nests  in  Brooklyn  trees,  and  Brooklyn  streets 
still  resounded  to  the  musical  cries  of  the  hucksters: 
"Radishees!  new  radishees!"  or  "Ole  clo'  an'  bot 
tles  !  any  ole  clo'  to  sell ! "  or  "  Shad  O !  fre-e-sh  shad ! " 
In  that  golden  age  we  played  football  around  the  old 
243 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

farmhouse  on  Montague  Terrace,  coasted  down  the 
hill  to  Fulton  Ferry,  and  made  an  occasional  ex 
pedition  to  Manhattan  to  observe  the  strange  wig 
wams  and  wild  goats  of  the  tribe  of  squatters  who 
inhabited  the  rocky  country  south  of  the  newly  dis 
covered  Central  Park.  Eheu  fugaces! 

There  was  a  long  interval  of  years  after  that  when 
the  sea-gulls  of  the  harbour  did  not  especially  in 
terest  me.  But  now  again,  of  late,  I  have  begun  to 
find  delight  in  them.  Conscience,  awakened  by  re 
sponsibility,  no  longer  permits  those  surreptitiously 
repeated  voyages  without  a  repeated  fare.  But  I 
go  through  the  gate  at  the  end  of  each  voyage,  and 
consider  twelve  cents  a  reasonable  price  for  the 
pleasure  of  travelling  up  and  down  the  North  River 
for  an  hour  and  watching  the  city  gulls  in  their 
winter  holiday. 

I  know  a  little  more  about  them  now.  They  are 
almost  all  herring  gulls,  although  occasionally  a 
stray  bird  of  another  species  may  be  seen.  The 
dark-gray  ones  are  the  young.  They  grow  lighter 
and  more  innocent-looking  as  they  grow  older,  until 
they  arc  pure  white,  except  the  back  and  the  top  of 
244 


SOME   REMARKS   ON    GULLS 

the  wings,  which  are  of  the  softest  pearl  gray.  The 
head  and  neck,  in  winter,  are  delicately  pencilled 
with  dusky  lines.  The  bill  is  bright  yellow  and 
rather  long,  with  the  upper  part  curved  and  slightly 
hooked,  for  a  good  hold  on  slippery  little  fish.  The 
foot  has  three  long  toes  in  front  and  a  foolish  little 
short  one  behind.  The  web  between  the  front  toes 
goes  down  to  the  tips;  but  it  makes  only  a  small 
paddle,  after  all,  and  when  it  comes  to  swimming, 
the  loon  and  the  duck  and  several  other  birds  can 
easily  distance  the  gull.  It  is  as  a  floater  that  he 
excels  in  water  sports;  he  rides  the  waves  more 
lightly  and  gracefully  than  any  other  creature 

"  The  gull,  high  floating  like  a  sloop  unladen, 

Lets  the  loose  water  waft  him  as  it  will; 

The  duck,  round-breasted  as  a  rustic  maiden, 

Paddles  and  plunges,  busy,  busy,  still.'* 

But  it  is  when  the  gull  rises  into  the  air,  where, 
indeed,  he  seems  to  spend  most  of  his  time,  that  you 
perceive  the  perfection  of  his  design  as  a  master  of 
motion.  The  spread  of  his  wings  is  more  than  twice 
the  length  of  his  body,  and  every  feather  of  those 
long,  silvery-pearly,  crescent  fans  seems  instinct  with 
245 


SOME   REMARKS   ON   GULLS 

the  passion  and  the  skill  of  flight.  He  rises  and  falls 
without  an  effort;  he  swings  and  turns  from  side  to 
side  with  balancing  motions  like  a  skater;  he  hangs 
suspended  in  the  air  immovable  as  if  he  were  held 
there  by  some  secret  force  of  levitation;  he  dives 
suddenly  head  foremost  and  skims  along  the  water, 
feet  dangling  and  wings  flapping,  to  snatch  a  bit  of 
food  from  the  surface  with  his  crooked  golden  bill. 
If  the  morsel  is  too  large  for  him  to  swallow,  look 
how  quickly  three  or  four  other  gulls  will  follow  him, 
trying  to  take  it  away.  How  he  turns  and  twists 
and  dodges,  and  how  cleverly  they  head  him  off  and 
hang  on  his  airy  trail,  like  winged  hounds,  giving 
tongue  with  thin  and  querulous  voices,  half  laughing 
and  half  crying  and  altogether  hungry.  He  cannot 
say  a  word,  for  his  mouth  is  full.  He  gulps  hastily 
at  his  booty,  trying  to  get  it  down  before  the  others 
catch  him.  But  it  is  too  big  for  his  gullet,  and  he 
drops  it  in  the  very  act  and  article  of  happy  degluti 
tion.  The  largest  and  whitest  of  his  pursuers  scoops 
up  the  morsel  almost  before  it  touches  the  waves, 
and  flaps  away  to  enjoy  his  piratical  success  in  some 
quiet  retreat. 

246 


SOME    REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

What  a  variety  of  cooking  the  gulls  enjoy  from  the 
steamships  and  sailing-vessels  of  various  nationali 
ties  which  visit  Manhattan!  French  cooks,  Italian, 
German,  Spanish,  English,  Swedish — cooks  of  all 
races  minister  to  their  appetites.  Whenever  a  pan 
ful  of  scraps  is  thrown  out  from  the  galley,  a  flock  of 
gulls  may  be  seen  fluttering  over  their  fluent  table 
d'hote.  Their  shrill,  quavering  cries  of  joy  and  ex 
pectancy  sound  as  if  the  machinery  of  their  emo 
tions  were  worked  by  rusty  pulleys;  their  sharp 
eyes  glisten,  and  their  great  wings  flap  and  whirl 
together  in  a  confusion  of  white  and  gray.  It  is  said 
that  they  do  useful  service  as  scavengers  of  the  har 
bor.  No  doubt;  but  to  me  they  commend  them 
selves  chiefly  as  visible  embodiments  and  revela 
tions  of  the  mystery,  wonder,  and  gladness  of 
flight. 

What  do  we  know  about  it,  after  all?  We  call 
this  long-winged  fellow  Larus  argentatus  smithsoni- 
anus.  We  find  that  his  normal  temperature  is  about 
two  degrees  higher  than  ours,  and  that  he  breathes 
faster,  and  that  his  bones  are  lighter,  and  that  his 
body  is  full  of  air-sacs,  fitting  him  to  fly.  But  how 
247 


SOME    REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

does  he  do  it?  How  does  he  poise  himself  on  an 
invisible  ledge  of  air, 

"  Motionless  as  a  cloud 

That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call, 
And  moveth  altogether  if  it  move  at  all  ?  " 

How  does  he  sail  after  a  ship,  with  wings  outspread, 
against  the  wind,  never  seeming  to  move  a  feather? 
You  understand  how  a  kite  mounts  upon  the  breeze: 
the  string  holds  it  from  going  back,  so  it  must  go  up. 
But  where  is  the  string  that  holds  the  gull  ? 

I  like  these  city  gulls  because  they  come  to  us  in 
winter,  when  the  gypsy  part  of  our  nature  is  most  in 
need  of  comforting  reminders  that  the  world  is  not 
yet  entirely  dead  or  civilized.  A  man  that  I  know 
once  wrote  a  poem  about  them,  and  sent  it  to  a 
magazine.  It  was  evidently  an  out-of-door  poem 
and  so  the  editor  put  it  in  the  midsummer  number, — 
when  you  might  cross  the  ferry  a  hundred  times 
without  seeing  a  single  gull.  They  do  not  begin  to 
come  to  town  until  October ;  and  it  is  well  on  into 
November  before  their  social  season  begins.  In 
March  and  April  they  begin  to  flit  again,  and  by  May 
248 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

they  are  all  away  northward,  to  the  inland  lakes 
among  the  mountains,  or  to  the  rocky  islands  of  the 
Maine  coast.  Let  us  follow  them. 


n 


A    GULL   PARADISE 

IN  the  waters  south  of  Cape  Cod,  where  blue-fish 
and  other  gamy  surface  swimmers  are  found,  the  gulls 
are  often  useful  guides  to  the  fisherman.  When  he 
sees  a  great  flock  of  them  fluttering  over  the  water, 
he  suspects  that  the  objects  of  his  pursuit  are  there, 
feeding  from  below  on  the  squid,  the  shiners,  or  the 
skip-jack,  on  which  the  gulls  are  feeding  from  above. 
So  the  fisherman  sails  as  fast  as  possible  in  that 
direction,  wishing  to  drag  his  trolls  through  the 
school  of  fish  while  they  are  still  hungry.  But  in 
the  colder  waters  around  the  island  of  Mount  Desert, 
where  the  blue-fish  have  never  come  and  the  mack 
erel  have  gone  away,  the  sign  of  the  fluttering  gulls 
does  not  indicate  fish  to  be  caught,  but  fish  which 
have  already  been  caught,  and  which  some  other 
fisherman  is  cleaning  for  the  market  as  he  hurries 
249 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

home.  The  gulls  follow  his  boat  and  glean  from 
the  waves  behind  it.  They  are  commentators  now, 
not  prophets. 

In  these  blue  and  frigid  deeps  the  real  sport  of 
angling  is  unknown.  There  is  instead  a  rather 
childish,  but  amusing,  game  of  salt-water  grab-bag. 
You  let  down  a  heavy  lump  of  lead  and  two  big 
hooks  baited  with  clams  into  thirty,  forty,  or  sixty 
feet  of  water.  Then  you  wait  until  something 
nudges  the  line.  Then  you  give  the  line  a  quick 
jerk,  and  pull  in,  hand  over  hand,  and  see  what  you 
have  drawn  from  the  grab-bag.  It  may  be  a  silly, 
but  nutritious  cod,  gaping  in  surprise  at  this  curious 
termination  of  his  involuntary  rise  in  the  world;  or 
a  silvery  haddock,  staring  at  you  with  round,  re 
proachful  eyes;  or  a  pollock,  handsome  but  worth 
less;  or  a  shiny,  writhing  dog-fish,  whose  villainy  is 
written  in  every  line  of  his  degenerate,  chinless  face. 
It  may  be  that  spiny  gargoyle  of  the  sea,  a  sculpin; 
or  a  soft  and  stupid  hake  from  the  mud-flats.  It 
may  be  any  one  of  the  grotesque  products  of  Nep 
tune's  vegetable  garden,  a  sea-cucumber,  a  sea- 
carrot,  or  a  sea-cabbage.  Or  it  may  be  nothing  at 
250 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

all.  When  you  have  made  your  grab,  and  deposited 
the  result,  if  it  be  edible,  in  the  barrel  which  stands 
in  the  middle  of  the  boat,  you  try  another  grab,  and 
that's  the  whole  story. 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  amusement  appar 
ently  sane  men  can  get  out  of  such  a  simple  game 
as  this.  The  interest  lies,  first,  in  the  united  effort 
to  fill  the  barrel,  and  second,  in  the  rivalry  among 
the  fishermen  as  to  which  of  them  shall  take  in  the 
largest  cod  or  the  greatest  number  of  haddock,  these 
being  regarded  as  prize  packages.  The  sculpin  and 
the  sea  vegetables  may  be  compared  to  comic  valen 
tines,  which  expose  the  recipient  to  ridicule.  The 
dog-fish  are  like  tax  notices  and  assessments;  the 
man  who  gets  one  of  them  gets  less  than  nothing, 
for  they  count  against  the  catcher.  It  is  quite  as 
much  a  game  of  chance  as  politics  or  poker.  You 
do  not  know  on  which  side  of  the  boat  the  good 
fish  are  hidden.  You  cannot  tell  the  difference 
between  the  nibble  of  a  cod  and  the  bite  of  a  dog 
fish.  You  have  no  idea  what  is  coming  to  you, 
until  you  have  hauled  in  almost  all  of  your  line 
and  caught  sight  of  your  allotment  wriggling  and 
251 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

whirling  in  the  blue  water.  Sometimes  you  get 
twins. 

The  barrel  is  nearly  full.  Let  us  stop  fishing  and 
drifting.  Hoist  the  jib,  and  trim  in  the  main-sheet. 
The  boat  ceases  to  rock  lazily  on  the  tide.  The  life 
of  the  wind  enters  into  her,  and  she  begins  to  step 
over  the  waves  and  to  cut  through  them,  sending 
bright  showers  of  spray  from  her  bow,  and  leaving 
a  swirling,  bubbling,  foaming  wake  astern.  Were 
there  ever  waters  so  blue,  or  woods  so  green,  or 
rocky  shores  so  boldly  and  variously  cut,  or  moun 
tains  so  clear  in  outline  and  so  jewel-like  in  shifting 
colors,  as  these  of  Mount  Desert?  Was  there  ever 
an  air  which  held  a  stronger,  sweeter  cordial,  fra 
grant  with  blended  odours  of  the  forest  and  the  sea, 
soothing,  exhilarating,  and  life-renewing? 

Here  is  the  place  to  see  it  all,  and  to  drain  the  full 
cup  of  delight;  not  a  standpoint,  but  a  sailing-line 
just  beyond  Baker's  Island:  a  voyager's  field  of 
vision,  shifting,  changing,  unfolding,  as  new  bays 
and  islands  come  into  view,  and  new  peaks  arise, 
and  new  valleys  open  in  the  line  of  emerald  and 
amethyst  and  carnelian  and  tou  maline  hills.  You 
252 


SOME   REMARKSON    GULLS 

can  count  all  the  summits:  Newport,  and  Green, 
and  Pemetic,  and  Sargent,  and  Brown,  and  Dog, 
and  Western.  The  lesser  hills,  the  Bubbles,  Bald 
Mountain,  Flying  Mountain,  and  the  rest,  detach 
themselves  one  after  another  and  stand  out  from 
their  background  of  green  and  gray.  How  rosy  the 
cliffs  of  Otter  and  Seal  Harbor  glow  in  the  sunlight ! 
How  magically  the  great  white  flower  of  foam  ex 
pands  and  closes  on  the  sapphire  water  as  the  long 
waves,  one  by  one,  pass  over  the  top  of  the  big  rock 
between  us  and  Islesford !  This  is  a  bird's-eye  view : 
not  a  high-flying  bird,  circling  away  up  in  the  sky, 
or  perched  upon  some  lofty  crag,  as  Tennyson  de 
scribes  the  eagle: — 

"  Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ringed  with  the  azure  world  he  stands ; 
The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls, 
He  watches  from  his  mountain-walls  ;" 

but  a  to-and-fro-travelling  bird,  keeping  close  to  sea 
and  shore.  It  is  a  gull's-eye  view — just  as  the  flocks 
of  herring  gulls  see  it  every  day,  passing  back  and 
forth  from  their  seaward  nesting-place  to  their 
favourite  feeding-ground  at  Bar  Harbor.  There 
253 


SOME   REMARKS   ON    GULLS 

they  go  now,  flapping  southward  with  the  breeze. 
We  will  go  with  them  to  their  island  home,  and 
eat  our  dinner  while  they  are  digesting  theirs. 

Great  and  Little  Duck  Islands  lie  about  ten  miles 
off  shore  from  Seal  Harbor.  Their  name  suggests 
that  they  were  once  the  haunt  of  various  kinds  of 
sea-fowl.  But  the  ducks  have  been  almost,  if  not 
quite,  exterminated;  and  the  herring  gulls  would 
probably  have  gone  the  same  way,  but  for  the  exer 
tions  of  the  Audubon  Society,  which  have  resulted 
in  the  reservation  of  the  islands  as  a  breeding-ground 
under  governmental  protection.  It  has  taken  a  long 
time  to  awaken  the  American  people  to  the  fact  that 
the  wild  and  beautiful  creatures  of  earth  and  air 
and  sea  are  a  precious  part  of  the  common  inherit 
ance,  and  that  their  needless  and  heedless  destruc 
tion,  by  pot-hunters  or  plume-hunters  or  silly  shoot 
ers  who  are  not  happy  unless  they  are  destroying 
something,  is  a  crime  against  the  commonwealth 
which  must  be  punished  or  prevented.  The  people 
are  not  yet  wide  awake,  but  they  are  beginning  to 
get  their  eyes  open;  and  the  State  of  Maine,  which 
was  once  the  Butchers'  Happy  Hunting  Ground,  is 
254 


SOME   REMARKS   ON    GULLS 

now  a  leader  in  the  enactment  and  enforcement  of 
good  game  laws. 

There  is  only  one  place  on  the  shore  of  Great  Duck 
where  you  can  land  comfortably  when  the  wind  has 
any  northing  in  it,  and  that  is  a  little  cove  among 
the  rocks,  below  a  fisherman's  shanty,  on  the  lower 
end  of  the  island.  Here  there  are  a  few  cleared 
acres;  some  low  stone  walls  dividing  abandoned 
fields;  the  cellar  of  a  vanished  house,  and  a  ruined 
fireplace  and  chimney;  a  little  enclosure,  overgrown 
with  bushes  and  weeds,  marking  a  lonely,  forgotten 
burial-ground. 

There  are  few  gulls  to  be  seen  at  this  end  of  the 
island;  it  is  a  tranquil,  forsaken  place  where  we  can 
sit  beside  our  fire  of  driftwood  and  eat  our  broiled 
fish  and  bread,  and  smoke  an  after-dinner  pipe  of 
peace.  A  grassy  foot-path  leads  down  the  fields, 
and  across  a  salt-meadow,  and  along  a  high  sea 
wall  of  rocks  and  pebbles  cast  up  by  the  storms, 
and  so  by  a  rude  wood-road  through  a  forest  of 
spruce-trees  to  the  higher  part  of  the  island.  It 
rises  perhaps  a  hundred  feet  or  more  above  the  sea, 
with  a  steep  shore  built  of  huge  sloping  ledges  of 
255 


SOME    REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

flat  rock.  On  the  seaward  point  is  the  light-house, 
with  the  three  dwelling-houses  of  the  keepers,  all 
precisely  alike,  immaculately  neat  and  trim,  sur 
rounded  by  a  long  picket  fence,  and  presenting  a 
front  of  indomitable  human  order  and  discipline  to 
the  tumultuous  and  unruly  ocean,  which  heaves 
away  untamed  and  unbroken  to  the  shores  of  Spain 
and  Brittany. 

The  chief  keeper  of  the  light,  Captain  Stanley, 
who  has  been  with  it  since  it  was  first  kindled  twenty 
years  ago,  is  also  the  warden  of  the  sea-gulls.  All 
around  us,  in  the  air,  on  the  green  slopes  of  the 
island,  on  the  broad  gray  granite  ledges,  on  the 
dancing  blue  waves,  his  feathered  flocks  are  scat 
tered,  and  their  innumerable  laughter  and  shrill 
screaming  confuse  the  ear.  The  spruce-trees  on  the 
top  of  the  island  and  the  eastward  slopes  are  almost 
all  dead;  their  fallen  trunks  and  branches  and  up 
turned  roots  cover  the  little  hillocks  and  hollows  in 
all  directions.  The  gulls'  nests  are  hidden  away 
among  this  gray  debris,  or  in  crevices  among  the 
rocks,  sheltered  as  much  as  possible  from  the  wind 
and  the  rain. 

256 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

They  are  not  very  wonderful  from  an  architectural 
point  of  view,  being  nothing  more  than  rough  little 
circles  of  dried  twigs  and  grass  matted  together, 
with  perhaps  a  bit  of  seaweed  or  moss  for  padding 
in  the  case  of  a  parent  with  luxurious  tastes.  Three 
eggs  in  a  nest  is  the  rule,  and  all  that  the  average 
mother-gulls  wants  is  a  place  where  she  can  hold 
them  together  and  keep  them  warm  until  they  are 
hatched.  The  young  birds  are  praecocial;  they 
emerge  from  the  shell  with  a  full  suit  of  downy 
feathers,  and  are  able  to  walk  after  a  fashion,  and 
to  swim  pretty  well,  almost  from  the  day  of  their 
second  and  completed  birth.  The  young  of  altricial 
birds,  like  orioles,  and  bluebirds,  and  thrushes,  being 
born  naked  and  helpless,  have  a  reason  for  loving 
their  nest-homes,  so  carefully  and  delicately  built  to 
shelter  their  nude  infancy.  But  the  young  gull  cares 
not  for  "a  local  habitation  and  a  name."  All  that 
he  wants  of  home  is  a  father  and  mother,  nimble  and 
assiduous  in  bringing  food  to  him  while  he  flops 
around,  practising  his  legs  and  his  wings. 

It  is  August  now,  and  the  eggs  are  gone,  shells 
and  all.  Almost  all  of  the  young  gulls  are  accom- 
257 


SOME    REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

plished  swimmers  and  fair  fliers  by  this  time,  and  I 
suppose  the  majority  of  the  brood  can  go  with  their 
parents  to  the  nearer  harbours  and  along  the  island 
shores  to  forage  for  themselves.  But  there  are  a 
few  backward  or  lazy  children — perhaps  a  hundred 
— still  hanging  around  the  places  where  they  chipped 
the  egg,  hiding  among  the  roots  of  the  trees  or 
crouching  beside  the  rocks.  What  quaint,  ungainly 
creatures  they  are!  Big-headed,  awkward,  dusky, 
like  gnomes  or  goblins,  they  hop  and  scuffle  away  as 
you  come  near  them,  stumbling  over  the  tangled 
dead  branches  and  the  tussocks  of  grass,  with  out 
spread  wings  and  clumsy  motions.  Follow  one  a 
little  while  and  he  will  take  refuge  in  a  hole  under 
a  fallen  tree,  or  between  two  big  stones,  squatting 
there  without  much  apparent  fright  while  you  pat 
his  back  or  gently  scratch  his  head.  But  you  must 
be  careful  not  to  follow  the  youngsters  who  are  near 
the  edge  of  the  sea  when  there  is  a  surf  running,  for 
if  you  alarm  them  they  will  plunge  into  the  water 
and  be  bruised  and  wounded,  perhaps  killed,  by  the 
breakers  throwing  them  against  the  rocks. 

Wild  animals,  like  polecats  and  minks,  who  would 
258 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

be  likely  to  prey  upon  the  young  birds,  are  not 
allowed  to  reside  on  the  island;  and  it  is  too  far  to 
swim  from  the  mainland.  But  I  wonder  why  large 
hawks  and  other  birds  of  prey  do  not  resort  to  this 
place  as  a  marine  restaurant.  Perhaps  a  young  gull 
is  too  big,  or  too  tough,  or  too  high-flavoured  a  dish 
for  them.  Possibly  the  old  gulls  know  how  to  fight 
for  their  offspring.  I  suppose  that  enough  of  the 
adult  birds  are  always  on  hand  for  defence,  although 
during  a  good  part  of  the  day  the  majority  of  the 
flock  are  away  at  the  feeding-grounds. 

I  opened  the  gate  of  the  light-house  enclosure  and 
went  in.  Three  little  children  who  were  playing  in 
the  garden  came  shyly  up  to  me,  each  silently  offer 
ing  a  flower.  The  keeper  of  the  light,  who  is  a  most 
intelligent  man  and  an  ardent  Audubonite,  asked  me 
into  his  sitting-room  and  told  me  a  lot  about  his 
gulls. 

In  the  spring,  the  first  of  them  come  back  in  March, 
sometimes  arriving  in  a  snowstorm.  They  keep  to 
the  shore  most  of  the  time,  but  fuss  around  a  little, 
pulling  old  nests  to  pieces  or  making  new  ones. 
About  the  first  of  May,  they  move  up  to  the  centre 
259 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

of  the  island.  There  are  three  or  four  thousand  of 
them,  and  not  quite  half  as  many  nests.  By  the 
middle  of  May  the  first  egg  may  be  expected,  and 
in  the  second  week  of  June  the  first  gray  chick  puts 
out  his  big  head.  A  week  later  the  brood  is  all 
hatched  and  the  parental  troubles  begin. 

"The  old  birds,"  says  Mr.  Stanley,  "do  not  fail 
to  provide  food  for  their  young,  although  as  the 
birds  get  large  the  old  ones  have  to  go  sometimes 
many  miles  to  do  it,  but,  as  a  general  thing,  there  is 
plenty  for  them.  I  have  watched  them  coming  back 
at  night,  appearing  very  tired,  flying  very  low,  one 
behind  the  other.  They  would  light  near  where  the 
young  should  be  and  call,  and  the  chicks  would  rush 
up  to  the  old  bird  and  pick  its  bill;  after  the  proper 
time  the  old  bird  will  stretch  out  its  neck,  and  up 
will  come  a  mess  of  almost  everything,  from  bread 
to  sea-cucumbers,  livers,  fish  (all  the  small  kind). 
If  there  is  anything  left  after  the  feast  the  old  bird 
will  swallow  it  again.  Woe  betide  the  young  bird 
that  belongs  to  a  neighbour,  who  tries  to  fill  up  at  the 
wrong  place!  I  have  seen  a  young  bird  killed  by  one 
blow  from  the  old  bird's  bill,  his  head  torn  in  two.  As 
260 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

the  young  birds  grow,  the  old  birds  bring  them  larger 
fish  to  swallow.  We  have  a  few  old  birds  who 
know  the  time  we  feed  the  hens,  and  when  that  time 
draws  near  they  are  on  hand  to  dine  with  the  hens." 

By  the  latter  part  of  August,  having  done  their 
duties,  the  old  birds,  the  white  ones,  begin  to  leave 
the  island.  The  dingy  youngsters  are  slower  to  for 
sake  their  Eden  of  innocence,  lingering  on  beside  the 
unsullied  waters  and  beneath  the  crystalline  skies 
until  the  frosts  of  late  September  warn  them  that 
winter  is  at  hand.  Then  the  last  of  the  colony  take 
flight,  winging  their  way  southward  leisurely  and 
comfortably,  putting  in  at  many  a  port  where  fish 
are  cleaned  and  scraps  are  thrown  overboard,  until 
they  arrive  at  their  chosen  harbour  by  some  popu 
lous  and  smoke-clouded  city,  and  learn  to  dodge  the 
steamboats  and  swim  in  troubled  waters. 

So  the  Gull  Paradise  is  deserted  by  all  but  its 
guardians.  The  school  district  of  Duck  Island — the 
smallest  in  the  United  States — resumes  its  activities ; 
the  school-house  is  open,  the  teacher  raps  on  the 
desk,  and  the  fourteen  children  of  the  keepers  apply 
themselves  to  the  knowledge  that  is  dried  in  books. 
261 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

in 

IN   THE   GULLS'    BATH-TUB 

OVER  our  cottage  we  saw  them  flying  inland  every 
morning  about  ten  or  eleven  o'clock;  in  groups  of 
three  or  four;  in  companies  of  twelve  or  twenty; 
sometimes  a  solitary  bird,  hurrying  a  little  as  if  he 
were  belated.  Over  our  cottage  we  saw  them  flying 
seaward  every  afternoon,  one  or  two  at  a  time,  and 
then,  at  last,  a  larger  company  all  together.  The 
trail  through  the  woods,  up  along  the  lovely  moun 
tain-brook,  led  us  in  the  same  direction  as  the  gulls' 
path  through  the  air.  A  couple  of  miles  of  walking 
underneath  green  boughs  brought  us  to  the  shores 
of  Jordan  Pond,  lying  in  a  deep  gorge  between  the 
mountains  of  rock  with  the  rounded,  forest-clad 
Bubbles  at  its  head,  and  the  birches,  and  maples, 
and  poplars,  and  hemlocks  fringing  its  clean,  stony 
shores.  Then  we  understood  what  brought  the  gulls 
up  from  the  sea  every  day.  They  came  for  a  fresh 
water  bath  and  a  little  fun  in  the  woods. 

Look  at  them,  gathered  like  a  flotilla,  in  the  centre 
of  the  pond.  They  are  not  feeding;  they  are  not 
262 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

attending  to  any  business  of  importance;  they  are 
not  even  worrying  about  their  young;  they  are  not 
doing  anything  at  all  but  "bath-ing"  themselves,  as 
my  little  lad  used  to  say,  in  this  clear,  cool,  unsalted 
water,  and  having  the  best  time  in  the  world.  See 
how  they  swim  lazily  this  way  or  that  way,  as  the 
fancy  strikes  them.  See  how  they  duck  their  heads, 
and  stretch  their  long  wings  in  the  air,  and  splash 
the  water  over  one  another;  how  they  preen  their 
feathers  and  rise  on  the  surface,  shaking  themselves. 
Here  comes  a  trio  of  late  starters,  flying  up  from  the 
sea.  They  hover  overhead  a  moment,  crying  out  to 
the  crowd  below,  which  answers  them  with  a  general 
shout  and  a  flutter  of  excitement.  Didn't  you  hear 
what  they  said? 

"  Hello,  fellows !  How's  the  water  ? ' 
"Bully!  Just  right — come  in  quick's  you  can!" 
So  the  new  arrivals  swoop  down,  spreading  out  their 
tails  like  fans,  and  dangling  their  feet  under  them, 
and  settling  in  the  centre  of  the  crowd  amid  general 
hilarity. 

How  long  the  gulls  stay  at  their  bath  I  do  not 
know.     Probably  some  of  the  busy  and  conscien-- 


SOME    REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

tious  ones  just  hurry  in  for  a  dip  and  hurry  back 
again.  Others,  of  a  more  pleasure-loving  tempera 
ment,  make  the  trip  more  than  once,  like  a  boy  I 
knew,  whose  proud  boast  it  was  that  he  had  gone  in 
swimming  seven  times  in  one  afternoon.  The  very 
idle  and  self-indulgent  ones,  I  reckon,  spend  nearly 
the  whole  day  in  their  spacious  and  well-fitted  bath 
tub. 

The  mountain  lake  has  been  turned  into  a  reservoir 
for  the  neighbouring  village  of  Seal  Harbor.  But  the 
gulls  do  not  know  that,  I  am  sure;  nor  would  any 
one  else  who  judged  by  outward  appearances  sus 
pect  that  such  a  transformation  had  taken  place. 
For  the  dam  at  the  outlet  is  made  of  rough  stones, 
very  low,  almost  unnoticeable;  and  the  water  has 
not  been  raised  enough  to  kill  any  of  the  trees  or 
spoil  the  shore.  Jordan  Pond,  which  was  named 
for  a  commonplace  lumberman  who  used  to  cut 
timber  on  its  banks,  and  which  has,  so  far  as  I  know, 
no  tradition  or  legend  of  any  kind  connected  with  it, 
is  still  as  wild,  as  lovely,  as  perfect  in  its  lonely  charm 
as  if  it  were  consecrated  and  set  apart  to  the  memory 
of  a  score  of  old  romances. 
264 


SOME   REMARKS   ON    GULLS 

At  the  lower  end,  in  an  open  space  of  slightly 
rising  ground,  there  is  an  ancient  farmhouse  which 
has  been  extended  and  piazzaed  and  made  into  a 
rustic  place  of  entertainment.  Here  the  fashionable 
summer-folk  of  the  various  harbours  come  to  drink 
afternoon  tea  and  to  eat  famous  dinners  of  broiled 
chicken,  baked  potatoes,  and  pop-overs.  The  pro 
prietor  has  learned  from  the  modern  author  and 
advertiser  the  secret  of  success;  avoid  versatility 
and  stick  to  the  line  in  which  the  public  know  you. 
Having  won  a  reputation  on  pop-overs  and  chickens, 
he  continues  to  turn  them  out  with  diligence  and 
fidelity,  like  short-stories  of  a  standard  pattern. 

I  asked  him  if  there  was  any  fishing  in  the  lake. 
He  said  that  there  was  plenty  of  fishing;  but  he 
said  it  in  a  tone  which  made  me  doubtful  about 
his  meaning.  "What  kind  of  fish  were  there?" 
"Trout  by  nature,  and  landlocked  salmon  by  arti 
ficial  planting."  "Could  we  fish  for  them?"  "Sure; 
but  as  for  catching  anything  big  enough  to  keep — 
well,  he  did  not  want  to  encourage  us.  It  was  two 
or  three  years  since  any  good  fish  had  been  caught 
in  the  lake,  though  there  had  been  plenty  of  fishing. 
265 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

But  in  old  times  men  used  to  come  over  from  Hull's 
Cove,  fishing  through  the  ice,  and  they  caught" — 
then  followed  the  usual  piscatorial  legends  of  an 
tiquity. 

But  the  Gypsy  girl  and  I  were  not  to  be  disheart 
ened  by  historical  comparisons.  We  insisted  on 
putting  our  living  luck  to  the  proof,  and  finding  out 
for  ourselves  what  kind  of  fish  were  left  in  Jordan 
Pond.  We  had  a  couple  of  four-ounce  rods,  one  of 
which  I  fitted  up  with  a  troll,  while  she  took  the  oars 
in  a  round-bottomed,  snub-nosed  white  boat,  and 
rowed  me  slowly  around  the  shore.  The  water  was 
very  clear;  at  a  depth  of  twenty  feet  we  could  see 
every  stone  and  stick  on  the  bottom — and  no  fish! 
We  tried  a  little  farther  out,  where  the  water  was 
deeper.  My  guide  was  a  merry  rower  and  the  voy 
age  was  delightful,  but  we  caught  nothing. 

Let  us  set  up  the  other  rod,  while  we  are  trolling, 
and  try  a  few  casts  with  the  fly  as  we  move  along. 
I  will  put  the  trolling-rod  behind  me,  leaning  over 
the  back-board;  if  a  fish  should  strike,  he  would 
hook  himself  and  I  could  pick  up  the  rod  and  land 
him.  Now  we  will  straighten  out  a  leader  and 
266 


She  took  the  oars  and  rowed  me  slowly  around  the  shore. 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

choose  some  flies — a  silver  doctor  and  a  queen  of 
the  water — how  would  those  do  ?  Or  perhaps  a 

royal  coachman  would  be Chrrr-p!  goes  the  reel. 

I  turn  hastily  around,  just  in  time  to  see  the  trolling- 
rod  vanish  over  the  stern  of  the  boat.  Stop,  stop! 
Back  water — hard  as  you  can!  Too  late!  There 
goes  my  best-beloved  little  rod,  with  a  reel  and  fifty 
yards  of  line,  settling  down  in  the  deep  water,  almost 
out  of  sight,  and  slowly  following  the  flight  of  that 
invisible  fish,  who  has  hooked  himself  and  my  prop 
erty  at  the  same  time. 

This  is  a  piece  of  bad  luck.  Shall  we  let  the  day 
end  with  this?  "Never,"  says  the  G}^psy.  "Ad 
ventures  ought  to  be  continued  till  they  end  with 
good  luck.  We  will  put  a  long  line  on  the  other 
rod,  and  try  that  beautiful  little  phantom  minnow, 
the  silver  silk  one  that  came  from  Scotland.  There 
must  be  some  good  fish  in  the  pond,  since  they  are 
big  enough  to  run  away  with  your  tackle." 

Round  and  round  the  shore  she  rows,  past  the 
points  of  broken  rocks,  underneath  the  rugged  bluffs, 
skirting  all  the  shelving  bays.  Faintly  falls  the  even 
ing  breeze,  and  behind  the  western  ridge  of  Jordan 
267 


SOME    REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

Mountain  suddenly  the  sun  drops  down.  Look,  the 
gulls  have  all  gone  home.  Creeping  up  the  rosy- 
side  of  Pemetic,  see  old  Jordan's  silhouette  sketched 
in  shadow  by  the  sun.  Hark,  was  that  a  coaching 
horn,  sounding  up  from  Wildwood  Road  ?  There's 
the  whistle  of  the  boat  coming  round  the  point  at 
Seal.  How  it  sinks  into  the  silence,  fading  gradually 
away.  Twilight  settles  slowly  down,  all  around  the 
wooded  shore,  and  across  the  opal  lake 

Chr-r-r-r!  sings  the  reel.  The  line  tightens.  The 
little  rod,  firmly  gripped  in  my  hand,  bends  into  a 
bow  of  beauty,  and  a  hundred  feet  behind  us  a 
splendid  silver  salmon  leaps  into  the  air.  "What  is 
it  ?"  cries  the  Gypsy,  "a  fish  ?"  It  is  a  fish,  indeed, 
a  noble  ouannaiche,  and  well  hooked.  Now  if  the 
.  gulls  were  here,  who  grab  little  fish  suddenly  and 
never  give  them  a  chance,  or  if  the  mealy-mouthed 
sentimentalists  were  here,  who  like  their  fish  slowly 
strangled  to  death  in  nets,  they  should  see  a  fairer 
method  of  angling. 

The  weight  of  the  fish  is  twenty  times  that  of  the 
rod  against  which  he  matches  himself.  The  tiny 
hook  is  caught  painlessly  in  the  gristle  of  his  jaw. 

268 


SOME   REMARKS   ON   GULLS 

The  line  is  long  and  light.  He  has  the  whole  lake 
to  play  in,  and  he  uses  almost  all  of  it,  running,  leap 
ing,  sounding  the  deep  water,  turning  suddenly  to  get 
a  slack  line.  The  Gypsy,  tremendously  excited, 
manages  the  boat  with  perfect  skill,  rowing  this  way 
and  that  way,  advancing  or  backing  water  to  meet 
the  tactics  of  the  fish,  and  doing  the  most  important 
part  of  the  work. 

After  half  an  hour  the  ouananiche  begins  to  grow 
tired  and  can  be  reeled  in  near  to  the  boat.  We 
can  see  him  distinctly  as  he  gleams  in  the  dark 
water.  It  is  time  to  think  of  landing  him.  Then 
we  remembe.,  with  a  flash  of  despair,  that  we  have 
no  landing-net!  To  lift  him  from  the  water  by  the 
line  would  break  it  in  an  instant.  There  is  not  a 
foot  of  the  rocky  shore  smooth  enough  to  beach  him 
on.  Our  caps  are  far  too  small  to  use  as  a  net  for 
such  a  fish.  What  to  do?  We  must  row  around 
with  him  gently  and  quietly  for  another  ten  minutes 
until  he  is  quite  weary  and  tame.  Now  let  me  draw 
him  softly  in  toward  the  boat,  slip  my  fingers  under 
his  gills  to  get  a  firm  hold,  and  lift  him  quickly  over 
the  gunwale  Before  he  can  gasp  or  kick.  A  tap  on 
269 


SOME   REMARKS    ON    GULLS 

the  head  with  the  empty  rod-case — there  he  is — the 
prettiest  landlocked  salmon  that  I  ever  saw,  plump, 
round,  perfectly  shaped  and  coloured,  and  just  six 
and  a  half  pounds  in  weight,  the  record  fish  of 
Jordan  Pond! 

Do  you  think  that  the  Gypsy  and  I  wept  over  our 
lost  rod,  or  were  ashamed  of  our  flannel  shirts  and 
tweeds,  as  we  sat  down  to  our  broiled  chickens  and 
pop-overs  that  evening,  on  the  piazza  of  the  tea 
house,  among  the  white  frocks  and  Tuxedo  jackets 
of  the  diners-out  ?  No,  for  there  was  our  prize  lying 
in  state  on  the  floor  beside  our  table.  "And  we 
caught  him,"  said  she,  "in  the  gulls'  bath-tub!" 


270 


LEVIATHAN 


LEVIATHAN 

THE  village  of  Samaria  in  the  central  part  of  the 
State  of  Connecticut  resembled  the  royal  city  of 
Israel,  after  which  it  was  named,  in  one  point  only. 
It  was  perched  upon  the  top  of  a  hill,  encircled  by 
gentle  valleys  which  divided  it  from  an  outer  ring  of 
hills  still  more  elevated,  almost  mountainous.  But, 
except  this  position  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  you 
would  find  nothing  theatrical  or  striking  about  the 
little  New  England  hill-town:  no  ivory  palaces  to 
draw  down  the  denunciations  of  a  minor  prophet, 
no  street  of  colonnades  to  girdle  the  green  eminence 
with  its  shining  pillars,  not  even  a  dirty  picturesque- 
ness  such  as  now  distinguishes  the  forlorn  remnant 
of  the  once  haughty  city  of  Omri  and  of  Herod. 

Neat,  proper,  reserved,  not  to  say  conventional, 
the  Connecticut  Samaria  concealed  its  somewhat 
chilly  architectural  beauties  beneath  a  veil  of  feathery 
elms  and  round-topped  maples.  It  was  not  until 
you  had  climbed  the  hill  from  the  clump  of  houses 
and  shops  which  had  grown  up  around  the  railway 
273 


LEVIATHAN 

station, — a  place  of  prosperous  ugliness  and  un 
abashed  modernity, — that  you  perceived  the  respecta 
ble  evidences  of  what  is  called  in  America  "an  an 
cient  town."  The  village  green,  and  perhaps  a  half 
dozen  of  the  white  wooden  houses  which  fronted  it 
with  their  prim  porticoes,  were  possibly  a  little  more 
than  a  hundred  years  old.  The  low  farmhouse, 
which  showed  its  gambrel-roof  and  square  brick 
chimney  a  few  rods  down  the  northern  road,  was  a 
relic  of  colonial  days.  The  stiff  white  edifice  with 
its  pointed  steeple,  called  in  irreverent  modern 
phrase  the  "Congo"  church,  claimed  an  equal  an 
tiquity;  but  it  had  been  so  often  repaired  and  "im 
proved"  to  suit  the  taste  of  various  epochs,  that  the 
traces  of  Sir  Christopher  Wren  in  its  architecture 
were  quite  confused  by  the  admixture  of  what  one 
might  describe  as  the  English  Sparrow  style. 

The  other  buildings  on  the  green,  or  within  sight 
of  it  along  the  roads  north,  south,  east,  and  west,  had 
been  erected  or  built-over  at  different  periods,  by 
prosperous  inhabitants  or  returning  natives  who 
wished  to  have  a  summer  cottage  in  their  birth-place. 
These  structures,  although  irreproachable  in  their 
274 


LEVIATHAN 

moral  aspect,  indicated  that  the  development  of  the 
builder's  art  in  Samaria  had  not  followed  any  known 
historical  scheme,  but  had  been  conducted  along 
sporadic  lines  of  imitation,  and  interrupted  at  least 
once  by  a  volcanic  outbreak  of  the  style  named,  for 
some  inscrutable  reason,  after  Queen  Anne.  On  the 
edges  of  the  hill,  looking  off  in  various  directions 
over  the  encircling  vale,  and  commanding  charming 
views  of  the  rolling  ridges  which  lay  beyond,  were 
the  houses  of  the  little  summer  colony  of  artists, 
doctors,  lawyers  and  merchants.  Two  or  three  were 
flamboyant,  but  for  the  most  part  they  blended 
rather  gently  with  the  landscape,  and  were  of  a 
modesty  which  gave  their  owners  just  ground  for 
pride. 

The  countenance  of  the  place  was  placid.  It 
breathed  an  air  of  repose  and  satisfaction,  a  spirit 
which  when  it  refers  to  outward  circumstances  is 
called  contentment,  and  when  it  refers  to  oneself  is 
called  complacency.  The  Samaritans,  in  fact,  did 
not  think  ill  of  themselves,  and  of  their  village  they 
thought  exceeding  well.  There  was  nothing  in  its 
situation,  its  looks,  its  customs  which  they  would 
275 


LEVIATHAN 

have  wished  to  alter;  and  when  a  slight  change  came, 
a  new  house,  a  pathway  on  the  other  side  of  the 
green,  an  iron  fence  around  the  graveyard,  a  golf- 
links  in  addition  to  the  tennis-courts,  a  bridge-whist 
afternoon  to  supplement  the  croquet  club,  by  an  un 
conscious  convention  its  novelty  was  swiftly  elimi 
nated  and  in  a  short  time  it  became  one  of  the  "old 
traditions."  Decidedly  a  place  of  peace  was  Sama 
ria  in  Connecticut, — a  place  in  which  "the  struggle 
for  life"  and  the  rivalries  and  contests  of  the  great 
outside  world  were  known  only  by  report.  Yet, 
being  human,  it  had  its  own  inward  strifes;  and  of 
one  of  these  I  wish  to  tell  the  tale. 

In  the  end  this  internal  conflict  centred  about 
Leviathan;  but  in  the  beginning  I  believe  that  it 
was  of  an  ecclesiastical  nature.  At  all  events  it  did 
not  run  its  course  without  a  manifest  admixture  of 
the  odium  theologicum,  and  it  came  near  to  imperil 
ling  the  cause  of  Christian  unity  in  Samaria. 

The  Episcopal  Church  was  really  one  of  the  more 
recent  old  institutions  of  the  village.  It  stood  be 
side  the  graveyard,  just  around  the  corner  from  the 
village  green;  and  the  type  of  its  wooden  architect- 
276 


LEVIATHAN 

tire,  which  was  profoundly  early  Gothic  and  was 
painted  of  a  burnt-umber  hue  sprinkled  with  sand 
to  imitate  brownstone,  indicated  that  it  must  have 
been  built  in  the  Upjohn  Period,  about  the  middle 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  But  Samaria,  without  the 
slightest  disloyalty  to  the  principles  of  the  Puritans, 
had  promptly  adopted  and  assimilated  the  Episcopal 
form  of  worship.  The  singing  by  a  voluntary  quar 
tette  of  mixed  voices,  the  hours  of  service,  even  the 
sermons,  were  all  of  the  Samaritan  type.  The  old 
rector,  Dr.  Snodgrass,  a  comfortably  stout  and  evan 
gelical  man,  lived  for  forty  years  on  terms  of  affec 
tionate  intimacy  with  three  successive  ministers  of 
the  Congregational  Church,  the  deacons  of  which 
shared  with  his  vestrymen  the  control  of  the  village 
councils. 

The  summer  residents  divided  their  attendance 
impartially  between  the  two  houses  of  worship.  Even 
in  the  distribution  of  parts  in  the  amateur  theatricals 
which  were  given  every  year  by  the  villagers  in  the 
town  hall  at  the  height  of  the  season,  no  difference 
was  made  between  the  adherents  of  the  ancient  faith 
of  Connecticut  and  the  followers  of  the  more  recently 
277 


LEVIATHAN 

introduced  order  of  Episcopacy.  When  old  Dr. 
Snodgrass  died  and  was  buried,  the  Rev.  Cotton 
Mather  Hopkins,  who  was  an  energetic  widower  of 
perhaps  thirty-five  years,  made  an  eloquent  address 
at  his  funeral,  comparing  him  to  the  prophet  Sam 
uel,  the  apostle  John,  and  a  green  bay  tree  whose 
foundations  are  built  upon  the  rock.  In  short, 
all  was  tranquil  in  the  ecclesiastical  atmosphere 
of  Samaria.  There  was  not  a  cloud  upon  the 
horizon. 

The  air  changed  with  the  arrival  of  the  new  rector, 
the  Rev.  Willibert  Beauchamp  Jones,  B.D.,  from  the 
Divinity  School  of  St.  Jerome  at  Oshkosh.  He  was 
a  bachelor,  not  only  of  divinity  but  also  in  the  social 
sense;  a  plump  young  man  of  eight  and  twenty  sum 
mers,  with  an  English  accent,  a  low-crowned  black 
felt  hat,  blue  eyes,  a  cherubic  smile,  and  very  high 
views  on  liturgies.  He  was  full  of  the  best  intentions 
toward  the  whole  world,  a  warm  advocate  of  the  re 
union  of  Christendom  on  his  platform,  and  a  man 
of  sincere  enthusiasm  who  regarded  Samaria  as  a 
missionary  field  and  was  prepared  to  consecrate  his 
life  to  it.  The  only  point  in  which  he  was  not  true 
278 


LEVIATHAN 

to  the  teachings  of  his  professors  at  St.  Jerome's  was 
the  celibacy  of  the  parish  clergy.  Here  he  held  that 
the  tradition  of  the  Greek  Church  was  to  be  pre 
ferred  to  that  of  the  Roman,  and  felt  in  his  soul  that 
the  priesthood  and  matrimony  were  not  inconsistent. 
In  fact,  he  was  secretly  ambitious  to  prove  their 
harmony  in  his  own  person.  He  was  a  very  social 
young  man,  and  firm  in  his  resolution  to  be  kind  and 
agreeable  to  everybody,  even  to  those  who  were  out 
side  of  the  true  fold. 

Mr.  Hopkins  called  on  him  without  delay  and  was 
received  with  cordiality  amounting  to  empressement. 
The  two  men  talked  together  in  the  friendliest  man 
ner  of  interests  that  they  had  in  common,  books, 
politics,  and  out-of-door  sports,  to  which  both  of 
them  were  addicted.  Mr.  Jones  offered  to  lend  Mr. 
Hopkins  any  of  the  new  books,  with  which  his 
library  was  rather  well  stocked,  and  promised  to  send 
over  the  Pall  Mall  Review,  to  which  he  was  a  sub 
scriber,  every  week.  Mr.  Hopkins  told  Mr.  Jones 
the  name  of  the  best  washerwoman  in  the  village, 
one  of  his  own  new  parishioners,  as  it  happened,  and 
proposed  to  put  him  up  at  once  for  membership  in 
279 


LEVIATHAN 

the  Golf  Club.     In  fact  the  conversation  went  off 
most  harmoniously. 

"It  was  extraordinarily  kind  of  you  to  call  so 
early,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Jones  as  he  followed  his 
guest  to  the  door  of  the  little  rectory.  "I  take  it  as 
a  mark  of  Christian  brotherhood;  and  naturally,  as 
a  clergyman,  I  want  to  be  as  close  as  possible  to 
every  one  who  is  working  in  any  way  for  the  good 
of  the  place  where  my  parish  lies." 

"Of  course!"  answered  Hopkins.  "That's  all 
right.  I  guess  you  won't  have  any  trouble  about 
Christian  brotherhood  in  Samaria.  Good-bye  till 
Monday  afternoon." 

But  as  he  walked  across  the  green,  the  skirts  of  his 
black  frock-coat  flapping  in  the  September  breeze, 
and  his  brown  Fedora  hat  set  at  a  reflective  angle 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  he  pondered  a  little  over  the 
precise  significance  of  his  confrere's  last  remark, 
which  had  not  altogether  pleased  him.  Was  there 
a  subtle  shade  of  difference  between  those  who  were 
working  "in  any  way"  for  the  good  of  Samaria,  and 
the  "clergyman"  who  felt  bound  to  be  on  good 
terms  with  them? 

280 


LEVIATHAN 

On  Monday  afternoon  they  had  appointed  to  take 
a  country  walk  together,  and  Hopkins,  who  was  a 
lean,  long-legged,  wiry  fellow,  with  a  deep  chest, 
gray  eyes,  and  a  short,  crisp  brown  beard  and  mous 
tache,  led  the  way  at  a  lively  pace  over  hill  and  dale 
around  Lake  Marapaug  and  back, — fourteen  miles 
in  three  hours.  Jones  was  rather  red  when  they 
returned  to  the  front  gate  of  the  rectory  about  five 
o'clock,  and  he  wiped  his  beaded  forehead  with  his 
handkerchief  as  he  invited  his  comrade  to  come  in 
and  have  a  cup  of  tea. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Hopkins,  "I'm  just  ready 
for  a  bit  of  work  in  my  study,  now.  Nice  little 
stroll,  wasn't  it?  I  want  you  to  know  the  country 
about  here,  and  the  people  too.  You  mustn't  feel 
strange  in  this  Puritan  region  where  my  church  has 
been  established  so  long.  We'll  soon  make  you  feel 
at  home.  Good-bye." 

An  hour  later,  when  Jones  had  sipped  his  tea,  he 
looked  up  from  an  article  in  the  Pall  Mall  Review  and 
began  to  wonder  whether  Hopkins  had  meant  any 
thing  in  particular  by  that  last  remark. 

"He's  an  awfully  good  chap,  to  be  sure,  but  just 
281 


LEVIATHAN 

a  bit  set  in  his  way.  I  fancy  he  has  some  odd  notions. 
Well,  perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  put  him  right,  if  I 
am  patient  and  friendly.  It  is  rather  plain  that  I 
shall  have  a  lot  of  missionary  work  to  do  here  among 
these  dissenters." 

So  he  turned  to  his  bookshelves  and  took  down  a 
volume  on  The  Primitive  Diaconate  and  the  Recon 
struction  of  Christendom.  Meantime  Hopkins  was 
in  his  study  making  notes  for  a  series  of  sermons  on 
"The  Scriptural  Polity  of  the  Early  New  England 
Churches." 

Well,  you  can  see  from  this  how  the  great  Levi 
athan  conflict  began.  Two  men  meeting  with  good 
intentions,  both  anxious,  even  determined,  to  be  the 
best  of  friends,  yet  each  unconsciously  pressing  upon 
the  other  the  only  point  of  difference  between  them. 
Now  add  to  this  a  pair  of  consciences  aggravated  by 
the  sense  of  official  responsibilities,  and  a  number  of 
ladies  who  were  alike  in  cherishing  for  one  or  the 
other  of  these  two  men  a  warm  admiration,  amount 
ing  in  several  cases,  shall  I  say,  to  a  sentimental 
adoration,  and  you  have  a  collection  of  materials  not 
altogether  favourable  to  a  peaceful  combination. 


LEVIATHAN 

My  business,  however,  is  with  Leviathan,  and 
therefore  I  do  not  propose  to  narrate  the  develop 
ment  of  the  rivalry  between  these  two  excellent  men. 
How  Mr.  Jones  introduced  an  early  morning  service, 
and  Mr.  Hopkins  replied  with  an  afternoon  musical 
vespers:  how  a  vested  choir  of  boys  was  installed  in 
the  brown  church,  and  a  cornet  and  a  harp  appeared 
in  the  gallery  of  the  white  church:  how  candles  were 
lighted  in  the  Episcopalian  apse,  (whereupon  Erastus 
Whipple  resigned  from  the  vestry  because  he  said 
he  knew  that  he  was  "goin5  to  act  ugly"),  and  a 
stereopticon  threw  illuminated  pictures  of  Palestine 
upon  the  wall  behind  the  Congregational  pulpit 
(which  induced  Abijah  Lemon  to  refuse  to  pass  the 
plate  the  next  Sunday,  because  he  said  he  "wa'nt 
goin'  to  take  up  no  collection  for  a  peep-show  in 
meetin'"):  how  a  sermon  beside  the  graveyard  on 
"the  martyrdom  of  King  Charles  I,"  was  followed, 
on  the  green,  by  a  discourse  on  "the  treachery  of 
Charles  II":  how  Mrs.  Slicer  and  Mrs.  Cutter 
crossed  each  other  in  the  transfer  of  their  church  re 
lations,  because  the  Slicer  boys  were  not  asked  to 
sing  in  the  vested  choir,  and  because  Orlando  Cutter 
283 


LEVIATHAN 

was  displaced  as  cornetist  by  a  young  man  from 
Hitchfield:  how  the  Jonesites  learned  to  speak  of 
themselves  as  "churchmen"  and  of  their  neighbours 
as  "adherents  of  other  religious  bodies,"  while  the 
Hopkinsians  politely  inquired  as  to  the  hours  at 
which  "mass  was  celebrated"  in  the  brown  edifice 
and  were  careful  to  speak  of  their  own  services  as 
"Divine  worship":  how  Mr.  Jones  went  so  far,  in 
his  Washington's  Birthday  Speech,  as  to  compliment 
the  architectural  effect  of  "the  old  meeting-house  on 
the  green,  that  venerable  monument  of  an  earnest 
period  of  dissent,"  to  which  Mr.  Hopkins  made  the 
retort  courteous  by  giving  thanks,  in  his  prayer  on 
the  same  occasion,  for  "the  gracious  memories  of 
fraternal  intercourse  which  still  hallowed  the  little 
brown  chapel  beside  the  cemetery":  how  all  these 
strokes  and  counterstrokes  were  given  and  exchanged 
in  a  decorous  and  bloodless  religious  war  which  en 
livened  a  Samaritan  autumn  and  winter  almost  to  the 
point  of  effervescence:  and  how  they  were  prevented 
from  doing  any  great  harm  by  the  general  good 
feeling  and  the  constitutional  sense  of  humour  of  the 
village,  it  is  not  my  purpose,  I  say,  to  relate  in  detail. 
284 


LEVIATHAN 

The  fact  is,  the  incipient  fermentation  passed  away 
almost  as  naturally  and  suddenly  as  it  began.  Old 
Cap'n  Elihu  Gray,  who  had  made  a  tidy  fortune  in 
his  voyages  to  the  East  Indies  and  retired  to  enjoy 
it  in  a  snug  farmhouse  beside  the  Lirrapaug  River, 
a  couple  of  miles  below  the  village,  was  reputed  to 
be  something  of  a  freethinker,  but  he  used  to  come 
up,  every  month,  to  one  or  other  of  the  two  churches 
to  sample  a  sermon.  His  summary  of  the  contro 
versy  which  threatened  the  peace  of  Samaria,  seemed 
to  strike  the  common-sense  of  his  fellow-townsmen 
in  the  place  where  friendly  laughter  lies. 

"Wa'al,"  said  he,  puffing  a  meditative  pipe,  "I've 
seen  folks  pray  to  cows  and  jest  despise  folks  'at 
prayed  to  elephants.  'N  I've  seen  folks  whose 
r'ligion  wouldn't  'low  'em  to  eat  pig's  meat  fight 
with  folks  whose  r'ligion  wouldn't  'low  'em  to  eat 
meat  't  all.  But  I  never  seen  reel  Christians  dispise 
other  reel  Christians  for  prayin'  at  seven  in  the 
mornin'  'stead  of  at  eleven,  nor  yet  fight  'bout  the 
difference  'tween  a  passel  o'  boys  singin'  in  white 
nightgowns  an'  half-a-dozen  purty  young  gals  tunin' 
their  voices  to  a  pipe-organ  an*  a  harp  o'  sollum 
285 


LEVIATHAN 

saound.  I  don't  'low  there  is  eny  devil,  but  ef  ther* 
wuz,  guess  that's  the  kind  o'  fight  'd  make  him  grin." 

This  opinion  appeared  to  reach  down  to  the  funda 
mental  saving  grace  of  humour  in  the  Samaritan 
mind.  The  vestry  persuaded  the  Reverend  Willi- 
bert  that  the  time  was  not  yet  ripe  for  candles;  and 
the  board  of  deacons  induced  the  Reverend  Cotton 
Mather  to  substitute  a  course  of  lectures  on  the 
Women  of  the  Bible  for  the  stereopticon  exhibitions. 
Hostilities  gently  frothed  themselves  away  and  sub 
sided.  Decoration  Day  was  celebrated  in  Samaria, 
according  to  the  Hitchfield  Gazette,  "by  a  notable 
gathering  in  the  Town  Hall,  at  which  the  Rev.  Jones 
offered  an  eloquent  extemporaneous  prayer  and  the 
Rev.  Hopkins  pronounced  an  elegant  oration  on  the 
Civil  War,  after  which  the  survivors  partook  of  a 
banquet  at  the  Hancock  Hotel." 

But  the  rivalry  between  the  two  leaders,  sad  to 
say,  did  not  entirely  disappear  with  the  peaceful  rec 
onciliation  and  commingling  of  their  forces.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  as  if  a  general  engagement  had 
been  abandoned  and  both  the  opposing  companies 
had  resolved  themselves  into  the  happy  audience  of 
£86 


LEVIATHAN 

a  single  combat.  It  was  altogether  a  friendly  and 
chivalrous  contest,  you  understand, — nothing  bitter 
or  malicious  about  it, — but  none  the  less  it  was  a 
duel  a  V entrance,  a  struggle  for  the  mastery  between 
two  men  whom  nature  had  made  rivals,  and  for 
whom  circumstances  had  prepared  the  arena  in  the 
double  sphere  of  love  and  angling. 

Hopkins  had  become  known,  during  the  seven 
years  of  his  residence  at  Samaria,  as  the  best  trout- 
fisherman  of  the  village,  and  indeed  of  all  the  tribu 
tary  region.  With  the  black  bass  there  were  other 
men  who  were  his  equals,  and  perhaps  one  or  two, 
like  Judge  Ward,  who  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
summer  vacation  sitting  under  an  umbrella  in  a  boat 
on  Lake  Marapaug,  and  Jags  Witherbee,  the  village 
ne'er-do-weel,  who  were  his  superiors.  But  with  the 
delicate,  speckled,  evasive  trout  he  was  easily  first. 
He  knew  all  the  cold,  foaming,  musical  brooks  that 
sang  their  way  down  from  the  hills.  He  knew  the 
spring-holes  in  the  Lirrapaug  River  where  the  schools 
of  fish  assembled  in  the  month  of  May,  waiting  to 
go  up  the  brooks  in  the  warm  weather.  He  knew 
the  secret  haunts  and  lairs  of  the  large  fish  where  they 
287 


LEVIATHAN 

established  themselves  for  the  whole  season  and  took 
toll  of  the  passing  minnows.  He  knew  how  to  let 
his  line  run  with  the  current  so  that  it  would  go  in 
under  the  bushes  without  getting  entangled,  and  sink 
to  the  bottom  of  the  dark  pools,  beneath  the  roots  of 
fallen  trees,  without  the  hook  catching  fast.  He 
knew  how  to  creep  up  to  a  stream  that  had  hollowed 
out  a  way  under  the  bank  of  a  meadow,  without 
shaking  the  boggy  ground.  He  had  a  trick  with  a 
detachable  float,  made  from  a  quill  and  a  tiny  piece 
of  cork,  that  brought  him  many  a  fish  from  the 
centre  of  a  mill-pond.  He  knew  the  best  baits  for 
every  season, — worms,  white  grubs,  striped  minnows, 
miller's  thumbs,  bumble-bees,  grasshoppers,  young 
field-mice, — and  he  knew  where  to  find  them. 

For  it  must  be  confessed  that  Cotton  Mather  was 
a  confirmed  bait-fisherman.  Confession  is  not  the 
word  that  he  would  have  used  with  reference  to  the 
fact;  he  would  have  called  it  a  declaration  of  prin 
ciples,  and  would  have  maintained  that  he  was  a 
follower  of  the  best,  the  most  skilful,  the  most  pro 
ductive,  the  fairest,  the  truly  Apostolic  method  of 
fishing. 

288 


LEVIATHAN 

Jones,  on  the  other  hand,  was  not  a  little  shocked 
when  he  discovered  in  the  course  of  conversation 
that  his  colleague,  who  was  in  many  respects  such  a 
good  sportsman,  was  addicted  to  fishing  with  bait. 
For  his  own  angling  education  had  been  acquired  in 
a  different  school, — among  the  clear  streams  of  Eng 
land,  the  open  rivers  of  Scotland,  the  carefully  pre 
served  waters  of  Long  Island.  He  had  been  taught 
that  the  artificial  fly  was  the  proper  lure  for  a  true 
angler  to  use. 

For  coarse  fish  like  perch  and  pike,  a  bait  was 
permissible.  For  middle-class  fish,  like  bass,  which 
would  only  rise  to  the  fly  during  a  brief  and  uncer 
tain  season,  a  trolling-spoon  or  an  artificial  minnow 
might  be  allowed.  But  for  fish  whose  blood,  though 
cold,  was  noble, — for  game  fish  of  undoubted  rank 
like  the  salmon  and  the  trout,  the  true  angler  must 
use  only  the  lightest  possible  tackle,  the  most  diffi 
cult  possible  methods,  the  cleanest  and  prettiest  pos 
sible  lure, — to  wit,  the  artificial  fly.  Moreover,  he 
added  his  opinion  that  in  the  long  run,  taking  all 
sorts  of  water  and  weather  together,  and  fishing 
through  the  season,  a  man  can  take  more  trout  with 


LEVIATHAN 

the  fly  than  with  the  bait, — that  is,  of  course,  if  he 
understands  the  art  of  fly-fishing. 

You  perceive  at  once  that  here  was  a  very  pretty 
ground  for  conflict  between  the  two  men,  after  the 
ecclesiastical  battle  had  been  called  off.  Their  com 
munity  of  zeal  as  anglers  only  intensified  their  radical 
opposition  as  to  the  authoritative  and  orthodox  mode 
of  angling.  In  the  close  season,  when  the  practice 
of  their  art  was  forbidden,  they  discussed  its  theory 
with  vigour;  and  many  were  the  wit-combats  be 
tween  these  two  champions,  to  which  the  Samaritans 
listened  in  the  drug-store-and-post-office  that  served 
them  in  place  of  a  Mermaid  Tavern.  There  was 
something  of  Shakspere's  quickness  and  elegance  in 
Willibert's  methods;  but  Cotton  Mather  had  the 
advantage  in  learning  and  in  weight  of  argument. 

"It  is  unhistorical,"  he  said,  "to  claim  that  there 
is  only  one  proper  way  to  catch  fish.  The  facts  are 
against  you." 

"But  surely,  my  dear  fellow,"  repiled  Willibert, 
"there  is  one  best  way,  and  that  must  be  the  proper 
way  on  which  all  should  unite." 

"I  don't  admit  that,"  said  the  other,  "variety 
290 


LEVIATHAN 

counts  for  something.  Besides,  it  is  up  to  you  to 
prove  that  fly-fishing  is  the  best  way." 

"Well,"  answered  Willibert,  "I  fancy  that  would 
be  easy  enough.  All  the  authorities  are  on  my  side. 
Doesn't  every  standard  writer  on  angling  say  that 
fly-fishing  is  the  perfection  of  the  art?" 

"Not  at  all,"  Cotton  Mather  replied,  with  some 
exultation,  "Izaak  Walton's  book  is  all  about  bait- 
fishing,  except  two  or  three  pages  on  the  artificial  fly, 
which  were  composed  for  him  by  Thomas  Barker,  a 
retired  confectioner.  But  suppose  all  the  books  were 
on  your  side.  There  are  ten  thousand  men  who  love 
fishing  and  know  about  fishing,  to  one  who  writes 
about  it.  The  proof  of  the  angler  is  the  full  basket." 

At  this  Willibert  looked  disgusted.  "You  mistake 
quantity  for  quality.  It's  better  to  take  one  fish 
prettily  and  fairly  than  to  fill  your  basket  in  an 
inferior  way.  Would  you  catch  trout  with  a  net?" 

Cotton  Mather  admitted  that  he  would  not. 

"Well,  then,  why  not  carry  your  discrimination  a 
little  farther  and  reject  the  coarse  bait-hook,  and  the 
stiff  rod,  and  the  heavy  line  ?  Fly-tackle  appeals  to 
the  aesthetic  taste, — the  slender,  pliant  rod  with 


LEVIATHAN 

which  you  land  a  fish  twenty  times  its  weight,  the 
silken  line,  the  gossamer  leader,  the  dainty  fly  of 
bright  feathers  concealing  the  tiny  hook!" 

"Concealing!"  broke  in  the  advocate  of  the  bait, 
"that  is  just  the  spirit  of  the  whole  art  of  fly-fishing. 
It's  all  a  deception.  The  slender  rod  is  made  of 
split  cane  that  will  bend  double  before  it  breaks; 
the  gossamer  leader  is  of  drawn-gut  carefully  tested 
to  stand  a  heavier  strain  than  the  rod  can  put  upon 
it.  The  trout  thinks  he  can  smash  your  tackle,  but 
you  know  he  can't,  and  you  play  with  him  half-an- 
hour  to  convince  him  that  you  are  right.  And  after 
all,  when  you've  landed  him,  he  hasn't  had  even  a 
taste  of  anything  good  to  eat  to  console  him  for 
being  caught, — nothing  but  a  little  bunch  of  feathers 
which  he  never  would  look  at  if  he  knew  what  it  was. 
Don't  you  think  that  fly-fishing  is  something  of  a 
piscatorial  immorality  ?  " 

"Not  in  the  least,"  answered  Willibert,  warming 
to  his  work,  "it  is  a  legitimate  appeal,  not  to  the 
trout's  lower  instinct,  his  mere  physical  hunger,  but 
to  his  curiosity,  his  sense  of  beauty,  his  desire  for 
knowledge.  He  takes  the  fly,  not  because  it  looks 
292 


LEVIATHAN 

like  an  edible  insect,  for  nine  times  out  of  ten  it 
doesn't,  but  because  it's  pretty  and  he  wants  to 
know  what  it  is.  When  he  has  found  out,  you  give 
him  a  fair  run  for  his  money  and  bring  him  to 
basket  with  nothing  more  than  a  pin-prick  in  his 
lip.  But  what  does  the  bait-fisher  do?  He  de 
ceives  the  trout  into  thinking  that  a  certain  worm  or 
grub  or  minnow  is  wholesome,  nourishing,  diges 
tible,  fit  to  be  swallowed.  In  that  deceptive  bait  he 
has  hidden  a  big,  heavy  hook  which  sticks  deep  in 
the  trout's  gullet  and  by  means  of  which  the  disap 
pointed  fish  is  forcibly  and  brutally  dragged  to  land. 
It  lacks  refinement.  It  is  primitive,  violent,  bar 
baric,  and  so  simple  that  any  unskilled  village  lad 
can  do  it  as  well  as  you  can." 

"I  think  not,"  said  Cotton  Mather,  now  on  the 
defensive,  "just  let  the  village-lad  try  it.  Why,  the 
beauty  of  real  bait-fishing  is  that  it  requires  more 
skill  than  any  other  kind  of  angling.  To  present 
your  bait  to  the  wary  old  trout  without  frightening 
him;  to  make  it  move  in  the  water  so  that  it  shall 
seem  alive  and  free";  ("deception,"  murmured 
Willibert),  "to  judge  the  proper  moment  after  he 
293 


LEVIATHAN 

has  taken  it  when  you  should  strike,  and  how  hard; 
to  draw  him  safely  away  from  the  weeds  and  roots 
among  which  he  has  been  lying;  all  this  takes  quite 
a  little  practice  and  some  skill, — a  good  deal  more, 
I  reckon,  than  hooking  and  playing  a  trout  on  the 
clear  surface  of  the  water  when  you  can  see  every 
motion." 

"Ah,  there  you  are,"  cried  Willibert,  "that's  the 
charm  of  fly-fishing!  It's  all  open  and  above-board. 
The  long,  light  cast  of  the  fly,  'fine  and  far  off,'  the 
delicate  drop  of  the  feathers  upon  the  water,  the  quick 
rise  of  the  trout  and  the  sudden  gleam  of  his  golden 
side  as  he  turns,  the  electric  motion  of  the  wrist  by 
which  you  hook  him, — that  is  the  magic  of  sport." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  "I'll  admit  there's  some 
thing  in  it,  but  bait-fishing  is  superior.  You  take  a 
long  pool,  late  in  the  season;  water  low  and  clear; 
fish  lying  in  the  middle;  you  can't  get  near  them. 
You  go  to  the  head  of  the  pool  in  the  rapids  and 
stir  up  the  bottom  so  as  to  discolour  the  water  a 
little " 

"Deceptive,"  interrupted  Willibert,  "and  decid 
edly  immoral!" 

294 


LEVIATHAN 

"Only  a  little,"  continued  Cotton  Mather,  "a 
very  little!  Then  you  go  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  pool  with  a  hand-line " 

"A  hand-line!"  murmured  the  listener,  half- 
shuddering  in  feigned  horror. 

"Yes,  a  hand-line,"  the  speaker  went  on  firmly, 
"a  long,  light  hand-line,  without  a  sinker,  baited 
with  a  single,  clean  angle-worm,  and  loosely  coiled 
in  your  left  hand.  You  cast  the  hook  with  your 
right  hand,  and  it  falls  lightly  without  a  splash,  a 
hundred  feet  up  stream.  Then  you  pull  the  line  in 
very  gently,  just  fast  enough  to  keep  it  from  sinking 
to  the  bottom.  When  the  trout  bites,  you  strike  him 
and  land  him  by  hand,  without  the  help  of  rod  or 
landing-net  or  any  other  mechanical  device.  Try 
this  once,  and  you  will  see  whether  it  is  easier  than 
throwing  the  fly.  I  reckon  this  was  the  way  the 
Apostle  Peter  fished  when  he  was  told  to  'go  to  the 
sea,  and  cast  a  hook,  and  take  up  the  fish  that  first 
cometh  up.'  It  is  the  only  true  Apostolic  method 
of  fishing." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,"  answered  the  other,  "the 
text  doesn't  say  that  it  was  a  bait-hook.  It  may 
295 


LEVIATHAN 

have  been  a  fly-hook.  Indeed  the  text  rather  im 
plies  that,  for  it  speaks  of  the  fish  as  *  coming  up/ 
and  that  means  rising  to  the  fly." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Cap'n  Gray,  rising  slowly  and 
knocking  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe  on  the  edge  of 
his  chair,  "I  can't  express  no  jedgment  on  the  merits 
of  this  debate,  seein'  I've  never  been  much  of  a 
fisher.  But  ef  I  wuz,  my  fust  ch'ice'd  be  to  git  the 
fish,  an'  enny  way  that  got  'em  I'd  call  good." 

The  arrival  of  the  Springtime,  releasing  the 
streams  from  their  imprisonment  of  ice,  and  setting 
the  trout  to  leaping  in  every  meadow- brook  and  all 
along  the  curving  reaches  of  the  swift  Lirrapaug, 
transferred  this  piscatorial  contest  from  the  region 
of  discourse  to  the  region  of  experiment.  The  rec 
tor  proved  himself  a  competitor  worthy  of  the  min 
ister's  mettle.  Although  at  first  he  was  at  some 
disadvantage  on  account  of  his  slight  acquaintance 
with  the  streams,  he  soon  overcame  this  by  diligent 
study;  and  while  Hopkins  did  better  work  on  the 
brooks  that  were  overhung  with  trees  and  bushes, 
Jones  was  more  effective  on  the  open  river  and  in 
the  meadow-streams  just  at  sundown.  They  both 
296 


LEVIATHAN 

made  some  famous  baskets  that  year,  and  were 
running  neck  and  neck  in  the  angling  field,  equal  in 
success. 

But  in  the  field  of  love,  I  grieve  to  say,  their 
equality  was  of  another  kind.  Both  of  them  were 
seriously  smitten  with  the  beauty  of  Lena  Gray,  the 
old  Captain's  only  daughter,  who  had  just  come 
home  from  Smith  College,  with  a  certificate  of 
graduation,  five  charming  new  hats,  and  a  con 
siderable  knowledge  of  the  art  of  amateur  dramatics. 
She  was  cast  for  the  part  of  leading  lady  in  Samaria's 
play  that  summer,  and  Mr.  Jones  and  Mr.  Hopkins 
were  both  secretly  ambitious  for  the  post  of  stage- 
manager.  But  it  fell  to  Orlando  Cutter,  who  lived 
on  the  farm  next  to  the  Grays.  The  disappointed 
candidates  consoled  themselves  by  the  size  of  the 
bouquets  which  they  threw  to  the  heroine  at  the 
close  of  the  third  act.  One  was  of  white  roses  and 
red  carnations;  the  other  was  of  pink  roses  and 
lilies  of  the  valley.  The  flowers  that  she  carried 
when  she  answered  the  final  curtain-call,  curiously 
enough,  were  damask  roses  and  mignonette.  A 
minute  observer  would  have  noticed  that  there  was 
297 


LEVIATHAN 

a  fine  damask  rose-bush  growing   in  the  Cutter's 
back  garden. 

There  was  no  dispute  of  methods  between  Jones 
and  Hopkins  in  the  amatorial  realm,  like  that  which 
divided  them  in  matters  piscatorial.  They  were 
singularly  alike  in  attitude  and  procedure.  Both 
were  very  much  in  earnest;  both  expressed  their 
earnestness  by  offerings  presented  to  the  object  of 
their  devotions;  both  hesitated  to  put  their  desires 
and  hopes  into  words,  because  they  could  not  do  it 
in  any  but  a  serious  way,  and  they  feared  to  invite 
failure  by  a  premature  avowal.  So,  as  I  said,  they 
stood  in  love  upon  an  equal  footing,  but  not  an 
equality  of  success;  rather  one  of  doubt,  delay  and 
dissatisfaction.  Miss  Gray  received  their  oblations 
with  an  admirable  impartiality.  She  liked  their 
books,  their  candy,  their  earnest  conversation,  their 
mild  clerical  jokes,  without  giving  any  indication 
which  of  them  she  liked  best.  As  her  father's  daugh 
ter  she  was  free  from  ecclesiastical  entanglements; 
but  of  course  she  wanted  to  go  to  church,  so  she  at 
tended  the  Episcopal  service  at  eleven  o'clock  and 
became  a  member  of  Mr.  Hopkins's  Bible  Class 


LEVIATHAN 

which  met  at  twelve  thirty.  Orlando  Cutter  usually 
drove  home  with  her  when  the  class  was  over. 

You  can  imagine  how  eagerly  and  gravely  Cotton 
Mather  and  Willibert  considered  the  best  means  of 
advancing  their  respective  wishes  in  regard  to  this 
young  lady;  how  they  sought  for  some  gift  which 
should  not  be  too  costly  for  her  to  accept  with  pro 
priety,  and  yet  sufficiently  rare  and  distinguished  to 
indicate  her  supreme  place  in  their  regards.  They 
had  sent  her  things  to  read  and  things  to  eat;  they 
had  drawn  upon  Hitchfield  in  the  matter  of  flowers. 
Now  each  of  them  was  secretly  casting  about  in  his 
mind  for  some  unique  thing  to  offer,  which  might 
stand  out  from  trivial  gifts,  not  by  its  cost,  but  by 
its  individuality,  by  the  impossibility  of  any  other 
person's  bringing  it,  and  so  might  prepare  the  way 
for  a  declaration. 

By  a  singular,  yet  not  unnatural,  coincidence,  the 
solution  presented  itself  to  the  imagination  of  each 
of  them  (separately  and  secretly  of  course)  in  the 
form  of  Leviathan. 

I  feel  that  a  brief  word  of  explanation  is  necessary 
here.  Every  New  England  village  that  has  any 
299 


LEVIATHAN 

trout-fishing  in  its  vicinity  has  also  a  legend  of  a 
huge  trout,  a  great-grandfather  of  fishes,  pneter- 
naturally  wise  and  wary,  abnormally  fierce  and 
powerful,  who  lives  in  some  particular  pool  of  the 
principal  stream,  and  is  seen,  hooked,  and  played 
by  many  anglers  but  never  landed.  Such  a  tra 
ditional  trout  there  was  at  Samaria.  His  lair  was  in 
a  deep  hole  of  the  Lirrapaug,  beside  an  overhanging 
rock,  and  just  below  the  mouth  of  the  little  spring- 
brook  that  divided  the  Gray's  farm  from  the  Cutter's. 
But  this  trout  was  not  only  traditional,  he  was  also 
real.  Small  boys  had  fished  for  him,  and  described 
vividly  the  manner  in  which  their  hooks  had  been 
carried  away, — but  that  does  not  count.  Jags  With- 
erbee  declared  that  he  had  struggled  with  him  for 
nearly  an  hour,  only  to  fall  exhausted  in  the  rapids 
below  the  pool  while  the  trout  executed  a  series  of 
somersaults  in  the  direction  of  Simsville, — but  that 
does  not  count.  What  really  counts  is  that  two 
reputable  clergymen  testified  that  they  had  seen  him. 
He  rose  once  to  Jones's  fly  when  he  was  fishing  up 
the  river  after  dusk,  and  Hopkins  had  seen  him  chase 
a  minnow  up  the  brook  just  before  sunrise.  The 
300 


LEVIATHAN 

latter  witness  averred  that  the  fish  made  a  wake  like 
a  steamboat,  and  the  former  witness  estimated  his 
weight  at  a  little  short  of  five  pounds, — both  called 
him  Leviathan,  and  desired  to  draw  him  out  with  a 
hook. 

Now  the  thought  that  secretly  occurred  to  each 
of  these  worthy  young  men,  as  I  say,  not  unnaturally, 
but  with  a  strange  simultaneousness  which  no  ordi 
nary  writer  of  fiction  would  dare  to  invent,  was  this: 
"  Catch  Leviathan  on  the  last  day  of  the  trout-sea 
son  and  present  him  to  Miss  Gray.  That  will  be 
a  famous  gift,  and  no  one  else  can  duplicate  it." 

The  last  day  of  the  season  was  July  31st.  Long 
before  daybreak  the  Rev.  Cotton  Mather  Hopkins 
stole  away  from  the  manse,  slipping  through  the 
darkness  noiselessly,  and  taking  the  steep  path  by 
Bushy  Brook  towards  the  valley  of  the  Lirrapaug. 
In  one  pocket  was  his  long,  light,  hand-line,  care 
fully  coiled,  with  a  selected  sneck-bend  hook  of 
tempered  steel  made  fast  to  the  line  by  the  smallest 
and  firmest  of  knots.  In  the  other  pocket  was  a  box 
of  choice  angle-worms,  dug  from  the  garden  two- 
days  before,  and  since  that  time  kept  in  moss  and 
301 


LEVIATHAN 

sprinkled  with  milk  to  make  them  clean  and  rosy. 
It  was  his  plan  to  go  down  stream  a  little  way  below 
the  rock-pool,  wait  for  daylight,  and  then  fish  up 
the  pool  slowly  until  he  reached  Leviathan's  lair  and 
caught  him.  It  was  a  good  plan. 

The  day  came  gently  and  serenely;  a  touch  of 
gray  along  the  eastern  horizon;  a  fading  of  the  deep 
blue  overhead,  a  paling  of  the  stars,  a  flush  of  orange 
in  the  east;  then  silver  and  gold  on  the  little  floating 
clouds,  and  amber  and  rose  along  the  hill-tops; 
then  lances  of  light  showing  over  the  edge  of  the 
world  and  a  cool  flood  of  diffused  radiance  flowing 
across  field  and  river.  It  was  at  this  moment,  be 
fore  there  was  a  shadow  to  be  found  in  the  scene, 
that  the  bait-fisherman  stepped  into  the  rapid  below 
the  pool  and  began  to  wade  slowly  and  cautiously 
upward  along  the  eastern  bank.  Not  a  ripple  moved 
before  him;  his  steps  fell  on  the  rocky  bottom  as  if 
he  had  been  shod  with  velvet.  The  long  line  shot 
out  from  his  swinging  hand  and  the  bait  fell  lightly 
on  the  pool, — too  far  away  yet  to  reach  the  rock. 
Another  cast  follows,  and  still  another,  but  without 
any  result.  The  rock  is  now  reached,  but  the  mid- 
302 


LEVIATHAN 

die  of  it  projects  a  little  into  the  pool,  and  makes  a 
bend  or  bay  which  is  just  out  of  sight  from  the  point 
where  the  fisherman  stands.  He  gathers  his  line  in 
his  left  hand  again  and  makes  another  cast.  It  is  a 
beauty.  The  line  uncoils  itself  without  a  hitch  and 
the  bait  curves  around  the  corner,  settling  down  be 
side  the  rock  as  if  a  bit  of  sand  had  fallen  from  the 
top  of  the  bank. 

But  what  is  that  dark  figure  kneeling  on  the  east 
ern  bank  at  the  head  of  the  pool  ?  It  is  the  form  of 
Willibert  Beauchamp  Jones,  B.D.  He  has  assumed 
this  attitude  of  devotion  in  order  that  Leviathan  may 
not  see  him  from  afar;  but  it  also  serves  uncon 
sciously  to  hide  him  from  the  fisherman  at  the  foot 
of  the  pool.  Willibert  is  casting  the  fly  very  beauti 
fully,  very  delicately,  very  accurately,  across  the 
mouth  of  the  spring-brook  towards  the  upper  end 
of  the  rock.  The  tiny  royal  coachman  falls  like  a 
snowflake  on  the  water,  and  the  hare's  ear  settles 
like  a  bit  of  thistledown  two  feet  beyond  it.  Nearer 
and  nearer  the  flies  come  to  the  rock,  until  at  last 
they  cover  the  place  where  the  last  cast  of  the  hand- 
line  fell.  There  is  a  flash  of  purple  and  gold  in  the 


LEVIATHAN 

water,  a  great  splash  on  the  surface, — Leviathan  has 
risen;  Willibert  has  struck  him;  the  royal  coachman 
is  fast  in  his  upper  lip. 

At  the  same  instant  the  fisherman  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  pool  feels  a  tightening  of  his  line.  He 
gives  it  a  quick  twitch  with  his  right  hand,  and  pre 
pares  to  pull  in  with  his  left.  Leviathan  has  taken 
the  bait;  Cotton  Mather  has  struck;  the  hook  is 
well  fastened  in  the  roof  of  the  fish's  mouth  and  the 
sport  begins. 

Willibert  leaps  to  his  feet  and  moves  towards  the 
end  of  the  point.  Cotton  Mather,  feeling  the  heavy 
strain  on  his  line,  wades  out  towards  the  deeper  part 
of  the  pool.  The  two  fishermen  behold  each  other, 
in  the  moment  of  their  common  triumph,  and  they 
perceive  what  lies  between  them. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Hopkins,  "but  that  is  my  fish. 
He  must  have  taken  my  bait  before  he  rose  to  the 
fly,  and  I'll  be  much  obliged  to  you  if  you'll  let  go 
of  him." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  replied  Jones,  "but  it's  quite 
evident  that  he  rose  to  my  fly  before  you  felt  him 
bite  at  your  bait;  and  as  I  struck  him  first  and 
304 


LEVIATHAN 

hooked  him  first,  he  is  my  fish  and  I'll  thank  you  to 
leave  him  alone." 

It  was  a  pretty  situation.  Each  fisherman  realized 
that  he  was  called  upon  to  do  his  best  and  yet  unable 
to  get  ahead  of  the  other  without  danger  to  his  own 
success, — no  time  for  argument  surely!  Yet  I  think 
they  would  have  argued,  and  that  with  fierceness, 
had  it  not  been  for  a  sudden  interruption. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen!"  said  the  voice  of 
Orlando  Cutter,  as  he  stepped  from  the  bushes  at 
the  mouth  of  the  brook,  with  a  landing-net  in 
his  hand,  "I  see  you  are  out  early  to-day.  I 
came  down  myself  to  have  a  try  for  the  big  fish, 
and  Miss  Gray  was  good  enough  to  come  with 
me." 

The  rosy,  laughing  face  of  the  girl  emerged  from 
the  willows.  "Good  morning,  good  morning,"  she 
cried.  "Why  it's  quite  a  party,  isn't  it?  But  how 
wet  you  both  are,  Mr.  Hopkins  and  Mr.  Jones, — 
did  you  fall  in  the  water  ?  And  you  look  vexed,  too ! 
What  is  the  matter  ?  Oh,  I  see,  both  your  lines  are 
caught  fast  in  the  bottom  of  the  pool, — no,  they  are 
tangled  together" — (at  this  the  fish  gave  a  mighty 
305 


LEVIATHAN 

splash  and  a  rush  towards  the  shore,) — "  oh,  Orlando, 
it's  a  fish,  and  such  a  beauty!" 

The  trout,  bewildered  and  exhausted  by  the  double 
strain  upon  him,  floundered  a  little  and  moved  into 
the  shallow  water  at  the  mouth  of  the  brook.  Or 
lando  stepped  down  and  quietly  slipped  the  landing- 
net  under  him. 

"I  see  it  is  a  fish,"  he  said,  "and  it  seems  to  be 
caught  with  a  bait  and  a  fly,  but  it  certainly  is  landed 
with  a  net.  So  in  that  case,  gentlemen,  as  your 
claims  seem  to  be  divided,  I  will  take  the  liberty  of 
disengaging  both  your  hooks,  and  of  begging  Miss 
Gray  to  accept  this  Leviathan,  as — may  I  tell  them  ? 
— she  has  just  accepted  me." 

By  this  time  the  newly  risen  sun  was  shining  upon 
the  ripples  of  the  Lirrapaug  River  and  upon  the  four 
people  who  stood  on  the  bank  shaking  hands  and 
exchanging  polite  remarks.  His  glowing  face  was 
bright  with  that  cheerful  air  of  humourous  and  sym 
pathetic  benevolence  with  which  he  seems  to  look 
upon  all  our  human  experiences  of  disappointment 
and  success. 

The  weary  anglers  found  some  physical  comfort, 
306 


LEVIATHAN 

at  least,  in  the  cool  glasses  of  milk  which  Miss  Gray 
poured  for  them  as  they  sat  on  the  verandah  of 
the  farmhouse.  On  their  way  up  the  hill,  by  the 
pleasant  path  which  followed  Bushy  Brook,  these 
two  brethren  who  were  so  much  of  one  mind  in  their 
devotion  to  their  fishing  and  who  differed  only  in 
regard  to  the  method  to  be  pursued,  did  not  talk 
much,  but  they  felt  themselves  nearer  to  each  other 
than  ever  before.  Something  seemed  to  weave  be 
tween  them  the  delicate  and  firm  bonds  of  a  friend 
ship  strengthened  by  a  common  aim  and  chastened 
by  a  common  experience  of  disappointment.  They 
could  afford  to  be  silent  together  because  they  were 
now  true  comrades.  I  shall  always  maintain  that 
both  of  them  received  a  great  benefit  from  Leviathan, 


307 


THE    ART    OF    LEAVING    OFF 


THE    ART    OF    LEAVING    OFF 

IT  was  a  hot  August  Sunday,  one  of  those  days  on 
which  art  itself  must  not  be  made  too  long  lest  it 
should  shorten  life.  A  little  company  of  us  had 
driven  down  from  our  hotel  on  the  comparatively 
breezy  hill  to  attend  church  in  the  village.  The 
majority  chose  to  pay  their  devotions  at  the  big 
yellow  meeting-house,  where  the  preacher  was  re 
puted  a  man  of  eloquence;  but  my  Uncle  Peter 
drew  me  with  him  to  the  modest  gray  chapel,  at  the 
far  end  of  the  street,  which  was  temporarily  under 
the  care  of  a  student  in  the  winter-school  of  theology, 
who  was  wisely  spending  his  vacation  in  the  summer- 
school  of  life.  Some  happy  inspiration  led  the 
young  man  to  select  one  of  Lyman  Abbott's  shortest 
and  simplest  sermons, — itself  a  type  of  the  mercy 
which  it  commended, — and  frankly  read  it  to  us 
instead  of  pronouncing  a  discourse  of  his  own.  The 
result  of  this  was  that  we  came  out  of  chapel  at  a 
quarter  past  eleven  in  a  truly  grateful  and  religious 
frame  of  mind. 

311 


THE   ART    OF   LEAVING    OFF 

But  our  comrades  were  still  detained  in  the  yellow 
meeting-house;  and  while  the  stage-coach  waited 
for  them  in  the  glaring  fervour  of  noon,  my  Uncle 
Peter  and  I  climbed  down  from  our  seats  and  took 
refuge  on  the  grass,  in  the  shadow  of  the  roundhead 
maples  that  stood  guard  along  the  north  wall  of  the 
Puritan  sanctuary.  The  windows  were  open.  We 
could  see  the  rhythmic  motion  of  the  fan-drill  in  the 
pews.  The  pulpit  was  not  visible;  but  from  that 
unseen  eminence  a  strident,  persistent  voice  flowed 
steadily,  expounding  the  necessity  and  uses  of  "a 
baptism  of  fire,"  with  a  monotonous  variety  of  ap 
plication.  Fire  was  needful  for  the  young,  for  the 
middle-aged,  for  the  old,  and  for  those,  if  any,  who 
occupied  the  intermediate  positions.  It  was  need 
ful  for  the  rich  and  for  the  poor,  for  the  ignorant 
and  for  the  learned,  for  church-members,  for  those 
who  were  "well-wishers"  but  not  "professors,  '  and 
for  hardened  sinners, — for  everybody  in  fact:  and 
if  any  class  or  condition  of  human  creatures  were 
omitted  in  the  exhaustive  analysis,  the  preacher  led 
us  to  apprehend  that  he  was  only  holding  them  in  re 
serve,  and  that  presently  he  would  include  them  in 
312 


THE   ART    OF    LEAVING    OFF 

the  warm  and  triumphant  application  of  his  subject. 
He  was  one  of  those  preachers  who  say  it  all,  and 
make  no  demands  upon  the  intelligence  of  their 
hearers. 

Meantime  the  brown-and-yellow  grasshoppers 
crackled  over  the  parched  fields,  and  the  locusts 
rasped  their  one-stringed  fiddles  in  the  trees,  and 
the  shrunken  little  river  complained  faintly  in  its 
bed,  and  all  nature  was  sighing,  not  for  fire,  but  for 
water  and  cool  shade.  But  still  the  ardent  voice 
continued  its  fuliginous  exhortations,  until  the  very 
fans  grew  limp,  and  the  flowers  in  the  hats  of  the 
village  girls  seemed  to  wilt  with  fervent  heat. 

My  Uncle  Peter  and  I  were  brought  up  in  that 
old-fashioned  school  of  manners  which  discouraged 
the  audible  criticism  of  religious  exercises.  But  we 
could  not  help  thinking. 

"He  has  just  passed  'Secondly,'"  said  I,  "and 
that  leaves  two  more  main  heads,  and  a  practical 
conclusion  of  either  three  or  five  points." 

My  Uncle  Peter  said  nothing  in  answer  to  this. 
After  a  while  he  remarked  in  an  abstract,  discon 
nected  way:  "I  wonder  why  no  school  of  divinity 
313 


THE   ART    OF   LEAVING    OFF 

has  ever  established  a  professorship  of  the  Art  of 
Leaving  Off." 

"The  thing  is  too  simple,"  I  replied;  "theological 
seminaries  do  not  concern  themselves  with  the  sim 
plicities." 

"And  yet,"  said  he,  "the  simplest  things  are  often 
the  most  difficult  and  always  the  most  important. 
The  proverb  says  that  'well  begun  is  half  done.' 
But  the  other  half  is  harder  and  more  necessary, — 
to  get  a  thing  well  ended.  It  is  the  final  word  that 
is  most  effective,  and  it  is  something  quite  different 
from  the  last  word.  Many  a  talker,  in  the  heat  of 
his  discussion  and  his  anxiety  to  have  the  last  word, 
runs  clear  past  the  final  word  and  never  gets  back 
to  it  again." 

"Talking,"  said  I,  "is  only  a  small  part  of  life, 
and  not  of  much  consequence." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  he  answered.  "The 
tongue  is  but  a  little  member,  yet  behold  how  great 
a  fire  it  kindles.  Talking,  rightly  considered,  is  the 
expression  and  epitome  of  life  itself.  All  the  other 
arts  are  but  varieties  of  talking.  And  in  this  matter 
of  the  importance  of  the  final  touch,  the  point  at 
314 


THE   ART   OF   LEAVING   OFF 

which  one  leaves  off,  talking  is  just  a  symbol  of 
everything  else  that  we  do.  It  is  the  last  step  that 
costs,  says  the  proverb;  and  I  would  like  to  add, 
it  is  the  last  step  that  counts." 

"Be  concrete,"  I  begged,  "I  like  you  best  that 
way." 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "take  the  small  art  of 
making  artificial  flies  for  fishing.  The  knot  that  is 
hardest  to  tie  is  that  which  finishes  off  the  confec 
tion,  and  binds  the  feathers  and  the  silk  securely 
to  the  hook,  gathering  up  the  loose  ends  and  con 
cealing  them  with  invisible  firmness.  I  remember, 
when  I  first  began  to  tie  flies,  I  never  could  arrive 
at  this  final  knot,  but  kept  on  and  on,  winding  the 
thread  around  the  hook  and  making  another  half- 
hitch  to  fasten  the  ones  that  were  already  made, 
until  the  alleged  fly  looked  like  a  young  ostrich  with 
a  sore  throat. 

"Or  take  the  art  of  sailing  a  boat.  You  remem 
ber  Fanny  Adair?  She  had  a  sublime  confidence 
in  herself  that  amounted  to  the  first  half  of  genius. 
She  observed  that,  given  a  wind  and  a  sail  and  a 
rudder,  any  person  of  common  sense  could  make  a 
315 


THE   ART    OF   LEAVING    OFF 

boat  move  along.  So  she  invited  a  small  party  of 
equally  inexperienced  friends  to  go  out  with  her  in  a 
cat-boat  on  Newport  harbour.  The  wind  was  blowing 
freshly  and  steadily  towards  the  wharf,  and  neither 
the  boat-keeper  nor  I  suspected  any  lack  in  Fanny's 
competence  as  she  boldly  grasped  the  tiller  and  started 
out  in  fine  style,  beating  merrily  to  and  fro  across  the 
bay.  I  went  up  town  and  came  back  at  the  appointed 
hour  of  six  o'clock  to  meet  the  party.  The  wind  was 
still  blowing  freshly  and  steadily,  straight  onto  the 
wharf,  but  they  had  not  returned.  They  were  beat 
ing  up  and  down,  now  skimming  near  to  the  landing, 
now  darting  away  from  it.  We  called  them  to 
come  in.  I  saw  a  look  of  desperation  settle  on 
Fanny's  face.  She  slacked  away  the  main-sheet, 
put  the  boat  before  the  wind,  held  the  tiller  straight, 
and  ran  down  upon  the  wharf  with  a  crash  that 
cracked  the  mast  and  tumbled  the  passengers  over 
like  ten-pins  in  a  strike.  'I  knew  I  could  sail  the 
old  thing,'  said  Fanny,  'but  I  didn't  think  it  would 
be  so  hard  to  stop  her!"* 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  I.     "Isn't  the  same 
difficulty  often  experienced  by  after-dinner  speakers 
316 


THE   ART   OF   LEAVING   OFF 

and  lecturers,  and  speculators  on  the  stock-market, 
and  moral  reformers,  and  academic  co-ordinators 
of  the  social  system  of  the  universe  ?" 

"It  is,"  he  answered.  "They  can  sail  the  sea  of 
theory  splendidly,  but  they  don't  know  how  to  make 
a  landing.  Yet  that  is  really  the  thing  that  every 
body  ought  to  learn.  No  voyage  is  successful  un 
less  you  deliver  the  goods.  Even  in  a  pleasure- 
voyage  there  must  be  a  fit  time  and  place  for  leaving 
off.  There  is  a  psychological  moment  at  which  the 
song  has  made  its  most  thrilling  impression,  and 
there  the  music  should  cease.  There  is  an  instant 
of  persuasion  at  which  the  argument  has  had  its 
force,  and  there  it  should  break  off,  just  when  the 
nail  is  driven  home,  and  before  the  hammer  begins 
to  bruise  the  wood.  The  art  lies  in  discovering  this 
moment  of  cessation  and  using  it  to  the  best  advan 
tage.  That  is  the  fascination  of  the  real  'short 
story'  as  told  by  Hawthorne,  or  Poe,  or  Stevenson, 
or  Cable,  or  De  Maupassant,  or  Miss  Jewett,  or 
Margaret  Deland.  It  reaches  the  point  of  interest 
and  stops.  The  impression  is  not  blurred.  It  is 
like  a  well-cut  seal:  small,  but  clear  and  sharp. 
317 


THE   ART   OP   LEAVING   OFF 

You  take  the  imprint  of  it  distinctly.  Stockton's 
story  of  'The  Lady  or  the  Tiger'  would  not  gain 
anything  by  an  addition  on  the  natural  history  of 
tigers  or  the  psychological  peculiarities  of  ladies. 

"That  is  what  is  meant  by  the  saying  that  'brevity 
is  the  soul  of  wit/ — the  thing  that  keeps  it  alive.  A 
good  joke  prolonged  degenerates  into  teasing;  and 
a  merry  jest  with  explanations  becomes  funereal. 
When  a  man  repeats  the  point  of  his  story  it  is  al 
ready  broken  off.  Somebody  said  of  Mr.  Glad 
stone's  oratory  that  it  was  'good,  but  copious.' 
Canaries  sing  well,  but  the  defect  of  their  music  is 
its  abundance.  I  prefer  the  hermit-thrush  to  the 
nightingale,  not  because  the  thrush's  notes  are 
sweeter,  but  because  he  knows  when  to  leave  off, 
and  let  his  song  vanish,  at  the  exquisite  moment, 
into  the  silence  of  mysterious  twilight." 

"You  seem  to  be  proving,"  I  said,  "what  most 
men  will  admit  without  argument,  that  'enough  is 
as  good  as  a  feast.'" 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  replied,  "I  am  arguing 
against  that  proverb.  Enough  is  not  as  good  as  a 
feast.  It  is  far  better.  There  is  something  magical 
318 


THE   ART   OF   LEAVING    OFF 

and  satisfying  in  the  art  of  leaving  off.  Good  ad 
vice  is  infinitely  more  potent  when  it  is  brief  and 
earnest  than  when  it  dribbles  into  vague  exhorta 
tions.  Many  a  man  has  been  worried  into  vice  by 
well-meant  but  wearisome  admonitions  to  be  virtu 
ous.  A  single  word  of  true  friendly  warning  or 
encouragement  is  more  eloquent  than  volumes  of 
nagging  pertinacity,  and  may  safely  be  spoken  and 
left  to  do  its  work.  After  all  when  we  are  anxious 
to  help  a  friend  into  the  right  path,  there  is  not 
much  more  or  better  that  we  can  say  than  what  Sir 
Walter  Scott  said,  when  he  was  a-dying,  to  his  sori- 
in-law  Lockhart:  'Be  a  good  man,  my  dear,  be  a 
good  man.5  The  life  must  say  the  rest." 

"You  are  talking  as  seriously,"  said  I,  "as  if  you 
were  a  preacher  and  we  were  in  a  church." 

"Are  we  not?"  said  he,  very  quietly.  "When  we 
are  thinking  and  talking  of  the  real  meaning  of  life 
it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  in  the  Temple.  Let  me 
go  on  a  moment  longer  with  my  talk.  We  often 
fancy,  in  this  world,  that  beautiful  and  pleasant 
things  would  satisfy  us  better  if  they  could  be  con 
tinued,  without  change,  forever.  We  regret  the 
319 


THE   ART    OF   LEAVING    OFF 

ending  of  a  good  'day  off.'  We  are  sorry  to  be 
'coming  out  of  the  woods'  instead  of  'going  in.' 
And  that  regret  is  perfectly  natural  and  all  right. 
It  is  part  of  the  condition  on  which  we  receive  our 
happiness.  The  mistake  lies  in  wishing  to  escape 
from  it  by  a  petrification  of  our  joys.  The  stone 
forest  in  Arizona  will  never  decay,  but  it  is  no  place 
for  a  man  to  set  up  his  tents  forever. 

"The  other  day,  a  friend  was  admiring  the  old- 
fashioned  house  where  I  live.  "Tis  a  good  camp,' 
said  I,  'plenty  of  wood  and  water,  and  I  hope  it's 
on  the  right  trail.' 

"Many  of  our  best  friends  have  gone  ahead  of  us 
on  that  trail.  Why  should  we  hold  back?  The 
fairest  things  in  the  world  and  the  finest  are  always 
in  transition :  the  bloom  of  tender  Spring  disappear 
ing  in  the  dark  verdure  of  Summer;  the  week  of 
meadow-rue  and  nodding  lilies  passing  as  silently 
as  it  came;  the  splendid  hues  of  the  autumnal  hills 
fading  like  the  colours  on  a  bubble;  the  dear  child, 
whose  innocence  and  simplicity  are  a  daily  joy  to 
you,  growing  up  into  a  woman.  Would  you  keep 
her  a  child  forever,  her  head  always  a  little  lower 
320 


THE   ART    OF   LEAVING    OFF 

than  your  heart  ?  Would  you  stand  where  you  are 
to-day,  always  doing  the  same  things,  always  re 
peating  the  same  experiences,  never  leaving  off? 
Then  be  thankful  that  the  Wisdom  and  Goodness  by 
which  this  passing  show  is  ordered  will  not  surfer 
you  to  indulge  your  foolish  wish.  The  wisest  men 
and  women  are  not  those  who  cling  tenaciously  to 
one  point  of  life,  with  desperate  aversion  to  all 
change,  but  those  who  travel  cheerfully  through  its 
mutations,  finding  in  every  season,  in  every  duty,  in 
every  pleasure,  a  time  to  begin  and  a  time  to  cease, 
and  moving  on  with  willing  adaptation  through  the 
conclusion  of  each  chapter  to  the  end  of  the  book. 

"And  concerning  that  Finis  of  the  volume,  which 
is  printed  in  such  sober,  black,  italic  type,  I  remem 
ber  a  good  saying  of  old  Michel  de  Montaigne  in 
one  of  his  essays,— not  the  exact  words,  but  the  soul 
of  his  remarks.  He  says  that  we  cannot  judge 
whether  a  man  has  been  truly  fortunate  in  life 
until  we  have  seen  him  act  with  tranquillity  and 
contentment  in  the  last  scene  of  his  comedy,  which 
is  undoubtedly  the  most  difficult.  For  himself,  he 
adds,  his  chief  study  and  desire  is  that  he  may  well 
321 


THE    ART    OF    LEAVING    OFF 

behave  himself  at  his  last  gasp,  that  is  quietly  and 
constantly.  It  is  a  good  saying;  for  life  has  no 
finer  lesson  to  teach  us  than  how  to  leave  off." 

"I  wish  you  would  promise  me  one  thing,"  said  I 
to  my  Uncle  Peter:  "that  you  will  not  leave  off 
before  I  do." 

"Ah,"  he  answered,  "that  is  the  one  thing  that 
no  man  can  promise  another.  We  can  promise  not 
to  break  friendship,  not  to  cut  loose,  not  to  cease 
loving,  not  to  forget.  Isn't  that  enough  ?  " 

He  stood  up  reverently  and  bared  his  head.  The 
music  of  the  long-metre  doxology  was  floating 
through  the  open  windows. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  "If  that  is  true,  what  more 
do  we  need  ?  We  are  all  in  His  hand." 


322 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


lSte^°'v 

! 

General  Library 
LD  21A-50m-8/57                                 University  of  California 
(C8481slO)476B                                                 Berkeley 

'2577 


M317377 


